Poetry

Relic

In the day I can accept it. 

My shadow was long on Painswick beacon and it was well walked. My feet were writing some meandering tale into the thousand year history. The city below is built on layers but the eclectic ensemble speaks of a part of you. That is, a part of me too.

It's not like I could have breathed any deeper, or held you any tighter.

Last night, you saw us drink cider but. 

I imagine it's warm by your neck and in your arms. 

Please forget him.

I'd give my liver to see you again.

I don't know why I insist on going back. On paper, he left.

So I wandered down the track, I looked up and back.

A house, six fresh apples on a tree trunk. 

An axe, rust and shutters. 

He looked as if I was an apparition of a girl that came here before.

I'm sorry,

Really, what this is

is a tumour.

I'm trying to ignore this

but you were my chance to get it right. 

But we live little lives and all this is rather irrelevant. Nothing but a relic of conquest.

Emily Reed

© 2014