Blooms; spilled ink in clear water
paints the underside of petal-tender skin
purple-grey and pink-red
Pales; imprint of light behind closed lids
fades the memory of its vicious birth
behind a fragile veil
Ages; yellow-green and mud-brown
pleads in hushed tones
for permission to retreat
Restores; soft ripe fruit
invites careful touch –
remains thumbprint vulnerable.
Bitterness drifts under the TV
gathers fluff, corrupts the resident spiders
Disappointment, hidden between books
waits, pressed flat and forgotten
Unspoken words slip behind sofa cushions
break confidence to stray pennies
Resentment, swallowed by sore throats
brews bile to spit in later arguments
Resignation, sighed into stale air
loses patience, slips out the front door.
Elisabeth Alain lives in Worcestershire, raising two daughters and writing short stories and poetry. Her work has appeared in poetry anthology Please Hear What I’m Not Saying, and online in The Cabinet of Heed, Paragraph Planet, The Drabble and Dear Damsels.
Banner image: Adrien Ledoux