Tuesday Tunes – Poetry Through Music, #36, 2015


[Image from Favim.com]

[Inspired by Greylag’s “Yours to Shake”:]

They were healing day by day

in their own way, the way

others had always said meant

they’d never work; never should have tried

to be together.

She with her bright future, he

with his darker path of poor decisions.

How wrong

the views of strangers.

Folding the sheets, placing them with care

in his mother’s cupboard, she felt

calm – for the first time in ages.

A smile, an infrequent habit of late,

curved her lips into a fleeting memory,

a passing hint at a carefree beauty, of the visage

he had fallen in love with.  For they were:

in love.  Still,

despite life’s recent misfortunes

and horrors.

But now, now they were rediscovering

their old rhythm.  Faint yet, but definitely there;

a sway that leant her feet forward motion.

She let the smile linger, gingerly

placed a palm protectively on her stomach.

Kicks were still far off, but new life grew –

along with hope –

beneath fingertips which once had been reserved

for the gentle caress of his skin alone;

beautiful, tattooed skin adorned by that Angel.

She hadn’t told him, was waiting for sign

that he was truly himself again: the self

she had worked so hard to make whole

ever since the beginning.

They had lost everything: their own place,

the trust in others and with one another.

But that everything could be rebuilt.

She had to believe this to even take

a first waking breath each morning.

Allowing an accompanying hum to escape

her lips, to buoy

the repairing rhythm of the day,

she went to place the clothes in the bedroom.

The sound of his efforts in the garden –

so lush now, his own green baby –

followed her as she made towards

the back of his mother’s house.  Opening

the door, she heard his shovel fall, turned

her head towards the sound; didn’t see the arm

whip out to smother her mouth, keep her

from screaming.

Not again.

This couldn’t be happening.

Not now.

Think.  React.  Fight back and protect

what could not suffer what she had suffered.

She vaguely heard a male squeal

as she stomped on a booted foot.

But that was it.  Her efforts were exhausted

already, panic taking greater hold of her

as she felt the tip of a knife press against

her abdomen.


Thoughts whirled away from her,

imaginings of the future they’d never all have,

possibilities at happiness that kept being stolen

because of a singular history.

And then

that history was there.

The man with the demons sought vengeance.

She was released.

An unconscious figure slumped to the floor behind her.

She joined it in relief, briefly,

before hands – so gentle, so not

the hands that had wanted to do her harm but a moment ago;

before hands lifted her into arms so well known.

Together, they sobbed.

Together, they were now free.

Together, all three of them, could be a family.

[Copyright © N R Nolan 2015]