Dehydration
Grief is falling through me, draining my skin
salt white. I feel darkness spread around
my aching eyes. I am filled with dryness.
Flakes of paper ash rise from the open fire,
are sent swirling by an unseen coat, a breath.
I reach out to touch an invisible hand,
touch ash that dries to grey on my skin.
My body shakes, I have thought too much
about the futures sensed, I fear that signs
will stop, the ash and feathers settle.
I fear leaving the slow routines of grief.
As I breathe out, a feather strand moves
across the table. When I hold my breath
it dances back. Tricked by the phone’s echo
I get up, sit down. Grief has made me lazy.
I am watchful for reminders, pointers,
coincidences, the times when meanings
flow together. Paper ash rises from the fire
I hold my breath as a strand of feather
moves slowly across the table, rises.
Paul Bavister has published three volumes of poetry, including The Prawn Season (Two Rivers Press). His work has appeared in numerous magazines.
Amethyst Review 