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

Categories: Poetry