September 3, 2012 44 Comments
In the mornings in her tidy, rumpled room
she strips the bed of feathered pillows,
creates a deep, embracing warmth.
Bereft of sorrow, thought or wealth
she drifts through life lost within a sky-lit room
with linen curtains, purple painted walls.
I think of her alone,
try to guess the way she sleeps,
eyes closed, curled up in a foetal ball,
watch her dream and twist and turn.
One day I hope she’ll see,
flit among the roses,
feel each petal with her fingers,
languid, slow. She prays each night -
“Your kingdom comes. Your will be done“
- this I know, but do the angels sing?
I see them as she sits and bleeds,
until the winter witch has come.
© 2012 Louise Hastings