What a long word for something so short
A fear of something so quick
Clumsy
And immediate.
To simply fear a ceasing of breath
The Rattle
The dark crashing waves fizzing to nothingness on the shore.
And the thought of not holding your hand
Or smelling wood smoke on my jumper
Or walking down the aisle behind you on your wedding day
Leaves me with nothing to say.
For what could I do if not to feel the rough skin of my fathers hand
Or smell the top of a new born baby’s head
To hold a novel years in the making in proud grasp.
To cease to be, seems an awful waste
Just to step into some ‘Promised Land’.
Imy Brighty-Potts
