Sunday, 31 January 2010

re POEM 8

Small talk

is what fills the rooms
these days

punctuated, forced;
hours spent keeping up

appearances of fatigued
dreams stretched

across too many years.
We have become a card-

board cut-out of an original
ideal. The traffic light

no longer green, but
a pulsating amber.

Between the bowl
of milk-soaked muesli,

the baby monitor goes off.
Looking up our gazes meet,

hang in mid-air and I rise
to attend to the bundle

gurgling in the only room
that makes sense.

Catherine Mark


Judith Ellis said...

Good images, Catherine. Very nice.

Anonymous said...

And people wonder why I'm skeptical about romance...

The difficult reality of responsibility and sleep deprivation.

I guess we all bring our own interpretations to the wordings of fellow writers.

It's nice to have you back.