Hope

And the evening and the morning were the first
stretches of time she could be
alone with her thoughts. Bad company,
these, but better as dawn pinked.

Niggling, grey stocking-capped sorrows
wormed up through sinews and synapses
looking for dreams to invade,
sad memories to exploit. Fertile
territory, resistance down, the mind
an unhappy hunting ground.

Throbbing mud-like misery so filled
dark hours, quite by accident splashed
onto a happy remembrance, an irresistible joy.
A tiny fissure let in light
weakening pain to dust,
widening the bright cracks,
felling the grey forest−

Unobtrusive and unstoppable as day break.

 

 

Originally published in Distilled Lives Volume 2.