This house was washed away weeks ago.
Freak storm or tidal wave or something;
One of those natural disasters.
I was sleeping, so I didn’t notice.

Look out of the window and you’ll see I’m right.
We’re mid-Atlantic now perhaps,
Not beyond help, yet too far to be seen,
The visible invisible.

I’ve gotten to love these waves,
The lap, lapping sway and the cabin headache,
The bluster of wind and spume, flung against cold glass
Like snow from a gun.

It floats, obviously, this house,
And the watermark is lower than the letterbox,
So everything’s fine, just fine,
And there’s not the slightest chance of drowning.

‘Solid construction, energy efficient, built to last’ –
Those builders knew their stuff inside out,
And I have enough supplies to last until tomorrow,
Which is all that matters, isn’t it?

Do you fancy a cuppa? I’ll put the kettle on.
I’ve thought of everything, you see.
It’s just as well I turned the house inside out
Before the weather changed.

Vicki Watson © 2014

This year the butterflies will return,
Summer-soft and warm,
Their enchanting transience
Lightness and intensity in exquisite combination.

In downy, paper-thin gowns
They’ll brush the air and dance prettily,
Teasing, captivating, elusive –
‘For one season only’.

We forget, of course, that they are not the same butterflies.
Momentarily eternal and fresh with new life,
They are orphans too,
The tattered children of the dead year.

Yet it is hope, not time, which is their gift,
They choose life over memory, life over regret.
And so in summer’s fleeting embrace,
They will dance on regardless.

But let’s not rush things;
This year the butterflies will return,
And tomorrow will be.
Today there are snowflakes to attend to.

Vicki Watson © 2014

I am finding it difficult to remember,
Cannot place in my mind the year gone by.
Dates, minutes, days, hours,
Pitched into some dark, eternal hell –
Or else tossed to heaven without a second thought.

Were they valuable, those days?
Was there joy or despair between earth and sky?
Did we rage and war?
Was there compassion?
Did we learn to dance?

One cannot go back to check these things, of course;
There are no salvage expeditions here.
Time tugs at our sleeves
And we must obey.
We follow the rules.

Yet somewhere inside,
Finding refuge amongst the empty spaces,
Lodged between forgotten spring and lost winter,
A truth, a sure wisdom remains,
Housed in a single, perfect grain.

And, holding the grain in my hand,
It is enough.

Vicki Watson © 2013

The angels come more frequently now,
Their visits like spring primroses,
Full of five-petalled, open-palmed beauty and quiet energy,
An unexpected surprise.
For they will come again; persistence is a virtue, it seems,
And I’m not quite lost yet.

They smile encouragingly and their sparkling laughter fills the void;
It lingers in the memory.
And with them I can breathe full-lung and be joyful,
Shout and dance naked in the street if I like.
Or dye my hair blue.

But of course I don’t.
Because for now I am content to let them fill my soul with wonder,
To be their angel in return,
And to wait for next year’s blooms.

Copyright © 2013 Vicki Watson

Your eyes stare at me from under your matted hair,
The layers of dirt and neglect even deeper than pity or shame.
You do not question me; there is neither wonder nor curiosity there.
Nor do you ask, plead, beg.
Why should you?
It's too late and yet too early for that.
And your old, accusing look has been replaced
By a blank stillness.

But those eyes.
Even frozen, you are more alert, more alive than I,
I in my winter boots and long scarf.
It is strange to think that
Whilst living has eluded one of us,
Dying has escaped the other.
And it's hard to tell which is which.