Writers

Who I really am

I am the cucumber in the middle of the sandwich
Refreshing and never enough

I am the colours of the rainbow
With the mess after you’ve painted it

I am the breadcrumb on the bed linen
Tickling and reminding you I’m there

I’m the snail without a home
Looking for its lost shell

I’m the chicken in the egg
Picking madly to get out

I’m the word before the thought
Beating it in every race

I’m the peg on the washing line
Holding things together

I’m the lightning in the summer storm
Always more dramatic than it sounds

I’m the port running down your throat
Warm and slightly tipsy

I’m the imported apple strudel
Not quite British but anglicized

I am the thistle among weeds
Letting no one touch me

I’m the wind you can’t catch
always escaping through a hole

I’m a pearl among many on your necklace
Wanting to be a single diamond

I’m the extra mile
You want to go

I’m the dream I live
But real
I am now...

Ghost Walk

They advertise it highly
Along the river
The original one
And people pay to have
Sent a shiver down their spine.

I walk the way free
In fear
Of every corner
Of every dark man
And tall shadow
I see him

And I choose the path
We used to share in happiness
Now in despair
I’m drawn to doomed
Places of memory
The bench, the ruined abbey, the pub

I linger in the shadow of the window
Outside
I wait in haunted alleys
By the pub
I hold my breath
I stab my heart with thoughts
Of suspense
And roam mindlessly
In search of my missing
Soul
Mate
That isn’t dead. 

Heidi Rabenau