After all,it had been a caesarean birth,and in the desert.
Stitched together by thorns,I had lain by the rock
Weak and pale with grief.
Late her cries awoke me.Her eyes opened and she smiled.
Now I am on a better place
can stitch me up.
Scar tissue and spikes of gorse in flesh
wounded by the trial.
but nevertheless a birth
See the edges drawn together and the flesh connect.
Draw one side over the other to make the link strong.
I placed 29 anemones by her bed
Whispered,I am here.
Now they stitch me again as if the wound keeps opening
and the holy one who did it prays on.
This time it seems the thread is stronger and holds me.
Top Posts & Pages
- As wildflowers grow on bomb sites and on graves
- Which of us desires to dress for war?
- Well,I like it
- The most read post in June
- The new dictator is me
- Poetry and the subconscious
- We must look to find out what it is we lack
- Precognition by Margaret Atwood
- Why do people dress as if they are going camping?