We're oblivion.

A reaching arm, slow and hesitant,
Touches nothing, and withdraws again.
A hand, softly sweeps errant hair
Back to one side, and then falls back.
One tear, fought against, but failed
Slides down the cheek, and dries.
There is no tomorrow, there is no
Today, and only yesterday, and
All the sorrows there within remains.
And all the sorrows there, faded to monochrome
And softing in grey, drape gentle
Cover to the grieving soul, always
Pretending comfort, whilst holding
Back the warmth of colour, and
The possible promise of hope
In the morning sunlight's pool of gold.
Secrets untold.
Secrets untold.
There is no hope, no looking forwards
Once your life has been set back.
Loss, longing, and never knowing.
And so many lies.

© 2ndwitch, 16/06/15

My thanks to several songwriters for thoughts and feelings that have combined to give life to the above, including Iain Thomson, Martyn Joseph, Dougie MacLean, Jim King; and to Ivan Drever for the melody that sits beneath the words.

Hush, and listen . . .

My voice is no louder than yours.
Sometimes it is very quiet.
But I still have things to say,
I still have an opinion.
You should listen to my opinion,
For it is valid, and just as relevant
As your opinion is.
Please do not try and shut me up.
I have something to say.
It is the small people, the quiet people,
The almost silent people, the ones on the margin,
The ones who dare not shout,
The ones who fear the blows of misfortune,
The ones who work to stand still;
These are the people who hold our world together,
And these are the people that need to speak up.
Together we have a voice.
Together we can be heard.
Do not try to shut us up, we
Have things to say.
When the people speak.

Position vacant.

The space sits, vacant, empty, waiting
For something to fill it.
The space is silent, filled with the
Screams and howls of lost souls.
The space is a cacophony,
Made up of the noiseless grimaces of pain
And loss.
The space is within each one of us.
Some of us are afraid.
Some of us seek the space.
Some of us embrace the space.
Some of us seek to fill the space.
In all of us is the space.
And all of us are within the space.

© 2ndwitch, 17/02/15

Thank you for . . .

In the tone of the voice sits the warmth of the smile,
And the notes that dance on the bow are laughing;
Even when the song is sad, the warmth spreads
Like sinking into a scented bubble bath, and the
Velvet tones caress the senses, and soothe the soul.

In the whispered love-words of those dextrous fingers
And the tautness of the strings, there sings a glory
Of intimate erotica; the song the guitar sings is
For your ears only, all else are voyeurs, and should
Not be listening, nor drowning in sound.

The soft and sensuous marriage of horse hair and
Metal, vibrating in time, creating cadence,
Soaring, eagle-like, over the mundane and everyday
Troubles; here, in stark relief is the condensed
Experience of all human kind.

© 2ndwitch, 14/01/14

Resolution.

Slow sliding steps, a somnolent shuffle
Towards tomorrow. And tomorrow.
A sideways slip, sneaking and sidling
Into a new dawn, a new day.

But the sun still rises, and the moon
Still crosses the star-sky,
And the cloud tears fall time and time
And time again.

The wing-beat is measured,
The bird glides to earth.
And the stag stands, startled
And alert.

© 2ndwitch, 05/01/15

Rites of passage . . .

Lead them through the waiting storms, carry them when
The ground is mired in mud, hold their hands through
The dark woods, and perhaps one day, maybe, just maybe,
You will arrive in a golden valley, all sunlit and clear.
The small hand that winds its fingers into yours, clasping
Trustingly, is a trust that is sacred; a trust that must not be broken.
A broken trust is a crime beyond any other,
And the day that trust is broken is the saddest day in all time.
Time is endless and yet we are in the final days,
It is no longer the summer of our lives, but
The deadened leaves of autumns ghastly raiment
Fall and drift to cover all our yesterdays,
And on the wind is the first murmuring of the winds of winter.
And when winter comes, then will be the dying of our days.
The snow and ice of tomorrow is echoed back down the years,
And the raindrops that run, without mercy, down our necks
Are the harbingers of the black night, and all of our tears
Are shed in vain, but for the tiny hand that grasps so tight.
A long road winds before us, longer still behind, and yet
When the first light of the new day creeps behind the trees,
We know we are broken, and brought to our knees,
Before we resume the journey once again.

© 2ndwitch, 12/10/14

(My thanks to Dougie MacLean, whose lovely song, 'Rite of Passage' was the inspiration for this poem. As well as writing some cracking music he appears to be a genuinely lovely man, and well worth seeing live! See http://www.dougiemaclean.com for info.)