Belonging
L
LG
LGB
LGBTQ
LGBTQU
Everyone But Heterosexuals, EBH, that’s better.
Fiona Thomson
July 17 2009
Friday 17 July 2009
Wednesday 15 July 2009
Grief by Fiona Thomson
GRIEF
Droplets of ink not tears fall in pools around.
I wade to the shimmering bank, scramble up, drop down into the sand.
When I awake at first light a gentle breeze is dusting the clouds and I shiver with someone walking over my grave.
I tread the beach towards the place I call home and am scooped up with the first flight of swallows swooping and arcing, tempting summer from under hedgerows, through cobwebs.
I look back at my inky trail, the blot moulded in the landscape.
A big fat baby seagull pads alongside bearing witness to my tattooed grains of truth.
Yet blank page expression.
Sheets of white blowing in the wind not a trace or stain of anything that might have been, that was, that is.
Scrunched up as small as small can be tight in the bottom of the cupboard.
Sssshhh, don’t make a sound, don’t breathe a word.
How long will it be before they come looking for me?
Inhale exhale to the place you can breathe out no more.
That place is a space, a church for lost souls, harbour for storm beaten sailors, where children play and are touched through love.
Cheer up hen it might never happen.
It already has.
Fiona Thomson, 23May, 2009
Droplets of ink not tears fall in pools around.
I wade to the shimmering bank, scramble up, drop down into the sand.
When I awake at first light a gentle breeze is dusting the clouds and I shiver with someone walking over my grave.
I tread the beach towards the place I call home and am scooped up with the first flight of swallows swooping and arcing, tempting summer from under hedgerows, through cobwebs.
I look back at my inky trail, the blot moulded in the landscape.
A big fat baby seagull pads alongside bearing witness to my tattooed grains of truth.
Yet blank page expression.
Sheets of white blowing in the wind not a trace or stain of anything that might have been, that was, that is.
Scrunched up as small as small can be tight in the bottom of the cupboard.
Sssshhh, don’t make a sound, don’t breathe a word.
How long will it be before they come looking for me?
Inhale exhale to the place you can breathe out no more.
That place is a space, a church for lost souls, harbour for storm beaten sailors, where children play and are touched through love.
Cheer up hen it might never happen.
It already has.
Fiona Thomson, 23May, 2009
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