47
Aluredian
Hoping for the perfect
Fit to light some
Endless fire
In our souls.
We didn't care and
I was just going through the motions with you.
So maybe if I
Come home and
You've lit candles
With a smile and
My heart strains
Like an Olympic
Weightlifter to
Burst from my chest,
Failing at the last second
And only winning silver -
Because what we have
Was never quite
The glory of total
Triumph -
If you take
Me into your
Arms and we
Mutually acknowledge
The more rapid rush
Of our breath, the
Thunder drum of
Our heartbeats, the
Glimmer in our eyes,
We will not dare to say it,
Will not dare to contradict
Each other when
We claim
"I don't care," but …
I'll go through the motions with you.
This is my dream:
Be careful with it -
It's only small.
Its little bones
Are chipped blue mugs,
Wooden orange bowls heavy
With errant change.
Its skin is threadbare
Carpet: sat, slept and loved on,
And yellow curtains stuck
Halfway.
Its glass bauble eyes peer
From dusty wooden shelves.
Darkened watercolours frown
Down over muddied tiles.
In its open mouth books
Smack ivory pages, flapping
Inky tongues and whispers.
Its single chimney ear
Listens to the sky.
Its spine: a kitchen table,
Bends under papers and hairties,
Pens and pins and post-its.
The garden spreads grass-stains
Over its bare concrete toes,
A silver-hazel thumbnail pond
Dances with painted koi.
Mossy tiles fuzz and stumble over
The scalp of my dream, and
Its face watches the world rush by roaring.
In the river Styx, where all lost things drift
Eventually into Lethe's velvet murk,
An entire house sinks into the silt.
My simple dream.
A home.
Lost
Dreams
by Ella
Watts, 61
Ella's poem
was longlisted
in the
prestigious
Christopher
Tower
poetry prize
this year
Bryony House GCSE