At Christmas, my heart is heavy
With the loss of looking forward.
And at Halloween, that cosy scene,
That never manifests
Leaves me wondering
Where summer went,
And those boundless days
Of shared vitality.
Spring, at least, trembles on the edge
Of something more.
Each new bulb bursting,
A prelude
To something more.
And so I am comforted by promise,
The move towards,
Rocked like foetuses,
We are going,
We are going,
We are going,
We are going, to be okay.
Those miles between A and C,
Where B is being,
And C, just a concept,
Of something more.
It is when I sit still
I am reminded
Of all I have passed by.
About the Creator
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What Makes A Cook?
Despite sipping on a retired pornstar, I felt absolutely drunk. Like two giddy school girls, my mother and I ate in silence. While, every so often, looking up from our spoons to exchange a smile and a light laugh. Underneath the golden chandeliers of Savoy Grill glistened a rich, dark caramel, poured atop the apple tart tatin. A truly euphoric experience, it was.
By Katerina Petrou6 days ago in Feast
Comments (1)
How does this not have more reads. You span a year with beauty and make the reader realize what life is really about. These lines a brilliant: Those miles between A and C, Where B is being, And C, just a concept,