The moth that I admired on the balcony
is now inside my house
partaking of things
I did not consent to give.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Down by the bins
there is a bag full of clothes
and an Indian lady with an ironing-board
pulling things out.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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The river today stagnates,
and the air around it is pillow-thick
and heavy like soup;
…the kind that comes in off the sea as mist
and swallows you
(and everything else that surrounds you)
up.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Underneath, the river snakes by in silence –
happy, tranquil;
peaceful and undisturbed.
Above, a dustcart grumbles –
mute on plastic, paper,
glass and gum.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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This morning it smells of cut grass and summer
and there’s a wetness in the air.
On my legs, my tights stick
and already my jumper is too hot.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Anxiety
sits in my shoulders
like a bird
without wings
watching
the approach of winter.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Nestled in the nook of the window,
a moth,
sheltered
between concrete and wood.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Watching a man
sandblast a building –
cleaning one level,
dirtying the next.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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The wind makes ships out of balconies –
canvas and tarpaulin flapping,
plant heads creaking and snapping;
blowing everything – sadness, anger;
fear, frustration… away.
Like my head –
barely tethered, overly weathered;
subject to a disco of light too bright
for one with so many years.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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A misunderstanding turns what should
have been special into something plain
and the associated pain hurts more
than I care to describe.
I stare at the window and will
what is real into something else,
replacing what is
with what I would like.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Rebecca L. Atherton 