He stands, stretching upwards,
silent as the emerald eyed,
coal dusted cat, laid out
beneath the hanging brasses.
Unaware of the universe,
of the shimmering reflections
bouncing back.
Shining shards float free,
bound merely by memories,
each face, each fragrance,
each fall from favour.
His personal horcruxes,
his burden to bear home.
She lingers a while, watching
rainbows ride the ceiling,
scores of sunlit days long gone,
ghosts of tender touching moments.
She knows him, yet she knows nothing.

© Copyright 2013 Abigail Baker





They say we will have good
days and bad days.

They claim palliative love is worthy,
and nothing to be feared.

They recommend radiotherapy,
to help keep the lights burning bright.

They promised that chemical injections
would crack the problem, deep inside.

They lied, as energy drained away
and spent more encouraging the growth.

They missed the whole point,
on which your fate was finely balanced.

They tell us everything can be fixed,
one day, after we have slipped away.

They cannot not stop us holding on,
to the last sunrise we share together.

They will only accept your mortality
the moment, your sun is snuffed out.


© Copyright 2013 Abigail Baker



Baring fruit

The bat black fruit hang out
Inverted in the corvid tree.
Bony bare branches hold
a suspicious air of intelligence.
Curious eyes are watching, waiting
for the stumbling man to fall.
It is of no surprise they eat
the critical watching eyes.


© Copyright 2014 Abigail Baker