… they’re trying to get at her ‘Secrets’.
Shoulder-peering downwards and inwards.
But, she’s not having any of it…
yo-yo brushing them off,
when ignoring becomes too much of a chore.
Those ‘Secrets’ are buried deep,
beneath a lifetime of soul-scars and bruises.
There is no map to charter,
nor X marks the spot…
and she’s long ago learnt to re-bury them
away from solitary palm trees
and Queen Elizabeth shaped rock outcrops.
Yet, ‘Hidden’ means ‘Invitation’ to some…
I see her sat upon the cold January ground
outside the doorway of Shoe Zone in Newquay,
like a pencil sketch or rubbing
shadowed by the almost midnight half moon.
With a tattered cardboard begging sign
against one of her ‘Two Sizes Too Big’ para boots,
which reads ‘I’m Not Going To Lie, It’s For Beer’.
Whispering threats and complicated mysteries
under her sharp, steaming breath,
whilst fighting an almost invisible battle
with the unwelcome company she’s a-keeping.
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography
published in many publications around the world. He yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids
instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet.
Buy his books Scribblings Of A Madman (Lit Fest Press); Poetry From The Nearest Barstool; and a split poetry book The Raven And The Vagabond Heart with Bethany W Pope. You can also read…