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.