The curtains are pulled back with a sigh.
The room welcoming a blue like the motel swimming pool.
She spits her gum into the bible in the nightstand.
She wonders what she did to deserve his slam of the snooze button.
They are like ants trapped in sap.
A hanging piece of cotton along the hem of a skirt.
A favourite t shirt left in a lousy hotel.
Irretrievable, irreplaceable,
Something never as perfect as it was once before.
When you remember home do you think of the fire?
Or do you see me through the smoke, dimly?
The nightmares, the visions of naked children,
Squirming in the liquid sun,
And diving through the sewers,
Taking refuge below the gutter grates.
The scrambling of families,
Over plains of fallen villages,
Of ovens, of fridges, of old countertops -
Illuminated amber before they turn to dust again.
The landscape had fallen before we left,
a battle bleak and shrouded in ash,
The burning of an old world,
At the edge of the lake, sometimes I catch a silhouette submerged beneath my reflection -
But it’s just the slick of oil on the water.
These poems have been written by our regular contributor; Rachel Parkinson as part of Circa Verne’s Art Fest.