Img_4870by Hazel Thomas18 Jul 2016

The souls of the trees
Stood bare in the winter sun.
Leaves next to none.
I trace the bark with my finger tips
All around is still
They are constant in ever changing seasons
I want to find my grounding
My solid base
I know what made me happy
Is no longer there
The question is
How long before I care
To leap into the unknown.

A passive love harboured
Needs to sail freely
It is held back
Rocked by a sea of tears
Eyes so bleary
I can barely make out
The women we were.

Travelling like a nomad
It is bad
That no man's land is home.
On one side lay societal milestones
Grey and polished
Strewn about the freshly mowed lawn.
I've picked up a few of them
And lined my pockets heavy
First kiss
First job
First bevvy.

The other side has a 'what if' key
Which opens doors
That lead to other doors
A journey so free.
This island no longer speaks to me
I look around and do not recognise
The familiar faces
But the names sound similar
To ones I used to know.
So I write to remember
Writing is such a painful relief
It’s a gathering
Scattering of thoughts
A seeking of life
Now ember.