Quietly, like the moon breathing,
she folds everything that she is
into the grey handkerchief of herself.
Into her grubby square, she drops
her dead parents’ iced eyes, glazed
over with misgivings, resentments,
(They never could see
the wood for the trees.)
Next, she rests, gently,
her redundant love that
nobody ever wanted. Her
odds and ends, her remnants,
her remains, withdrawn now from
her platter offered to a cruel world.
Juggling, in the cotton rag,
scraps thrown to her over
a lifetime of loneliness and warmth’s
occasional crumbs that she existed on,
she starts to stride out from
her familiar neighbourhood.
Passing stark landmarks, silences,
moments frozen in a dark time,
blurry now, corners where
she was mercilessly taunted,
she walks, her hair salt candyfloss,
towards the cliffs that hold the mad sky up.
And she keeps going.
E K Wall Highly Commended