He

Inhabiting the space
between the shade and the light,
he was never truly able
to move freely.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Afoot


There is a green plaster on my balcony
that wasn’t there before.

And last night there was a freak hailstorm
that earlier wasn’t predicted.

In my neighbourhood,
strange things are happening.

by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Rock and cement


 
Searching for home in a world full of motion –
shapes constantly shifting,
people and spaces milling, spilling, moving around;
loud,
noisy,
fast-paced –
my hands paw at the intangible,
looking for connection inside
solid structures like rock and cement.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Dilemma

image
 
At 40 degrees,
the temperature is oppressive.

Standing in the pool,
lengths requiring more
than I can willingly recall,

I wonder whether I ought to
sink or swim?

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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What it used to be like

image
 
First she saw the orange wheelbarrow
and was drawn towards that,
and then she noticed the orange scarecrow
and instead wanted that.

And when, on her birthday
she opened first the orange
and then the green,
it finally all made sense

because orange was the colour of sensuality
and a newfound enjoyment for life
and green was the colour of healing
necessary to awaken that.

So she placed them outside on either side
of her small but perfectly proportioned garden
to watch over her and encourage her
while she slowly remembered what it used to be like.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Early Evening

The raindrops on the washing line
look pretty after the storm.

by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Time out

image
 
Nestled in the nook of the window,
a moth,

sheltered
between concrete and wood.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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From my balcony


 
Watching a man
sandblast a building –

cleaning one level,
dirtying the next.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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What I would like 

image

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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Tiny red flowers

Repeating the same mistakes,
I find myself returning to people and places that hurt;

then, angry, hurt myself,
seeking salvation in tiny red flowers.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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