Category Archives: poetry

A dark-winged moth

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Like a dark-winged moth
coveting a flame that will surely kill her,
she sits just inches from the light –
a plastic monument
similar in shape to London’s Gerkin,
only smaller and many miles from the Thames.

The last time she went there,
London’s Southbank,
was years ago.
The closest she’s been since was dinner in Eton:
same river, different town;
an hour from the capital.

She wonders how much it has changed
and if it has missed her?
She wonders if any of her friends still live there
and which of them remember her when she did if they do?
She wonders when she will go back and if she ever will,
why she would want to?

She wonders why she wonders about things so much
when wondering only creates problems
she has no idea how to solve?
Wondering this,
she decides to stop;
only it’s not that simple,

and somehow,
wondering about the little things,
the trivialities,
helps stop her from thinking too much
about the things that really matter,
like family and friendship and love.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Invisible Clouds – poetry

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On the terrace, I watch the moon get swallowed and then spat out,
passing through the belly of invisible clouds.
It’s late and the sky is black.

Overhead, a plane roars,
briefly drowning out the drone of crickets.
The wind stirs, making several twigs snap.

Inside, ants surround the sink,
descending on crumbs
I forgot to clean up.

Their perceptivity fascinates me,
but I am tired
of murdering tiny creatures.

I do not understand this place –
the moon, the crickets, the ants:
acting on impulse, driven by instinct.

Subject to the whim of emotion,
ruled by my own dark tides:
I covet their simple lives.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Trapped until summoned

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imageThe pain attacks my head,
sticking my eyes with needles,
making a cushion out of me.

My heart pounds,
my stomach lurches,
my throat becomes a summer meadow.
My feet want to stay still
but can’t stop moving.

Trapped inside,
glued to a chair by my dog,
waiting on him,
I have no option but to remain where I am until summoned,
staring at my phone,
willing it to ring.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Super Moon

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Once every thirteen months
the moon is uncharacteristically large,
the circumference of its orb almost threatening,
its glow, suffused with orange, demon-like.
Typical, then, that my eyes look up to a cloud-choked sky,
bereft even of the smallest hint of light.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Forgiving what I took to heart

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I love my dog more than life itself
and I’m not afraid to say it.
I think in the absence of the real thing,
she is my human child.

Some days, like today,
my love actually hurts:
a pain behind my ribcage,
wide and deep.

I think of my friends with babies
and I don’t know how they manage.
A cut lip would destroy me.
A sprain, and I would be a wreck.

And what of something serious,
like a virus or a disease?
I could never cope with compromised
or malfunctioning bits.

And yet I have –
in my own way,
on a much smaller scale:
navigating a broken tail,

fixing a dislocated knee,
treating a suspected heart murmur,
a skin parasite;
seeing her through hepatitis and gallstones.

We’ve been through a lot, her and I,
and so far we’ve survived.

I look to my parents with added respect,
only now understanding their challenges,
forgiving what I took to heart,
loving what I hated.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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The Water in Mallorca

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Drink flows like water,
which costs more than wine.
It’s the same with the bean and the bag.
In some bars, it’s €3 for an Evian
and €4 for some leaves in a mug.

In a bid to save money,
I’ve taken to drinking coffee by the litre
and wine by the jug.
While irresponsible for a person of my age and intellect,
inebriation favours me better than sobriety does.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Complaining to windows

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To my left, there is a lady cleaning.
She looks upset.
For half an hour now, she has been complaining to windows
and making faces at glass.

Every so often, she startles me with an exclamation
and several tongue clicks.
She’s hijacking my concentration
and trespassing my zen.

I want to abandon dignity,
chasten her with my lips.
But I settle for silent warfare
and apply my fingertips.

Dipping my index finger into make-believe paint,
I imagine I can see her aura,
tracing the outline of her body,
colouring it.

Brown turns to beige,
bows down to orange,
submits to pink,
dissolves into white.

My focus returns,
my mind reconnects,
my shoulders droop
and my heartbeat slows.

Oblivious,
my dog sleeps soundly,
entertained by a monochromatic landscape
of rabbits and moths.

by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Weak at the Knees

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Walking on air,
I fall head over heels;
I’m in deep.
My ankles buckle, as if under pressure.
My toes slip.

Collecting injuries,
like there’s no tomorrow,
I take my pain to bed,
curling around it like a senile cat;
feeding it and licking it.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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God is angry

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The weather is as stubborn as my chihuahua:
hot when it is supposed to be cold;
dry when rain was predicted.
It makes it difficult to plan
and I keep coming unstuck.

Today in cashmere,
I am itchy and uncomfortable
and I cannot help but scratch.
Red welts grow up on my arms
and my face dissolves into blotches.

Sipping water,
I attempt to cool down.
But it is all futile:
God is angry,
and the Devil wants to boil my brain.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Migration

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My pain migrates from left to right
as I attempt to write it onto the page,
extracting the edges,
smoothing them over with my pen.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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