She’s up in the attic room again,
back arched, frowning concentration,
nimble fingers flicking quickly
through boxes of old photographs.
He came to her in a dream last night,
but, this time it was different…
brighter… with warmth even.
No hint of anger, sadness or indifference.
There was a sparkle and a twinkle to his eyes…
My God, she had forgotten
the Magic which bursts Alive
when he opens up his soul and smiles.
“It’s here somewhere, I just know it,
come on, please” she whispers to herself
as she flutters busily to the next box
adorned with a skull & crossbones
with the word ‘Courting’ written in red
and later crossed out in black.
She finds it almost instantly
and holds it up shakily to the light…
and there they are together again.
She’s wearing the pretty dress
which it took her months to make
and he’s pushing her upon a park swing.
The skies are blue again, oh my,
like a child coloured them in with thick crayon.
Their faces hum and glow like flowers
whilst everyone around them
vulture sceptical or envious from the shadows.
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his book ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096