Bereaved mother, writing it all down
Baby shoes. Worn. Incredibly worn. Scuffed from trips and falls, stained from damp grass, and sand, and mud. Darker than they once were. Burnished. They are red leather, oxblood smart with two tiny velcro straps. Laces could wait. We bought them from the tiny shop down that little road – the posh shop with the … Read more
Like a marble slab, with grief comes weight. It’s a suffocating, crushing pressure that pushes you down from above, and pulls you from beneath. Staying alive takes focus and intense concentration. This breath, this step. Like a child we learn to live again. This is how we breathe, in, out, in, out. This is how … Read more
I couldn’t find a feather, there’s never one when you need one. You can’t plan these things, or know where to look. They are not like conkers or pine cones. Feathers find you, carried on the breeze in search of a new home. People tell me that they are messages from the other side, sent … Read more
You are the one I have trusted my boy to, the only one now who can take care of him, the one who has always taken care of him. From the moment he tried to eat out of the plant pot, in our tiny earthless city garden, he was always in search of you. We … Read more
MY POOR FEET This was written as part of the Winter Writing Sanctuary . The course consists of a ‘Daily Spark’ in which Beth reads some poetry aloud, and then a writing prompt. This day’s prompt was to stand in the garden in bare feet. The Daily Spark – new plan. I’m listening to the … Read more
I’ve known so many Christmas Carols, from The Muppets to Owen Meany.
“Which ghost are you?
This is the place that you have always known, this village, these woods. They remain the same and yet they are forever changed, now you’re not here to sculpt them. The shop on the corner is still there, but now Liz looks a bit scared when I walk in. The paperboys come to return their … Read more
There’s a poem, that I’ve forgotten the name of, about changing the sheets. It contains a line about the poet’s mother “the smell of clean washing is hers” I think of this every time I change the bed. I use the same washing powder that my mother used to, just for the smell. When I … Read more
I know where I live. I know where I live because the signposts and landmarks tell me so, but this is not my home.I remember watching the drama Chernobyl on the TV, before all this happened. This is where I live now. My home was full of laughter, and hope. Children played in the park … Read more
Kindness does not give out gold stars, which is really annoying – or badges, or certificates or any kind of recognition that you are doing well at this. It should, because that would really help, but that’s not what kindness is for.Kindness is there to remind you that there is no good way to do … Read more