Tuesday, 26 February 2019

The Duvet...

Whilst asleep

She tries to pull the duvet closer

Trembling fingers

Slowly stiffening with the chill

As her mind starts compensating

Through a dreamscape

Flickering images of her life

Playing like a film

And in that film her mother's

Softly urging

"Baby, eat your greens or you'll never

Grow up strong"

And her father's putting logs upon the fire

Yet none of that heat

Is making her feel warm

And she twists and turns 'til she's lost

Inside the duvet

Like a child within the womb

Safe and swaddled in love

But still, the cold snaps at her

As the film runs

And her sleep slips deeper

As she searches for a touch of warmth

Then, upon her cheek

She feels her mother's kisses

A slight light brush of tender as she softly naps

Yet, even so, those kisses leave her shivering 

As each one pierces her flesh

With an icy stab

Then the film begins to break up

Snapshot moments


Across the screen of her mind's eye

Her father reading her a bedtime story

Her favourite childhood doll

Tucked by her side

Now a stinging wind starts blustering

Through the storyboard

Reaching out to whip the duvet where she lies

And waking up

She takes in her surroundings

Devastated by reality but not surprised

That the flashbacks were just fabricated memories

Apparitions to appease and ease the gloom

Of the sleet and snow that's slowly

Covering her duvet

On the street in the dank shop doorway

That is her bedroom.

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Thursday, 21 February 2019

Future Me...

Future me

Looked at the child

With the crayon

In her hand

Through the shimmering


Window to the past

And watched in

Wistful silence

As the happy scene

Took shape

That summers day

As she sprawled

On the sun-kissed grass

Then future me

Looked to the sky

And the birds

Each bathed in blue

Through the shifting


Window to the past

And sighed with

Plaintive yearning

To taste again

That time

When the vibrancy

Of life

Seemed sure to last

And future me

Tried hard to hear

The giggles

Of the child 

Through the faltering


Window to the past

With a need for


Of hopefulness

Telling all

Was not yet lost

And the promise

Of tomorrow

Still in our grasp

Future me

Wished she could join

The child

In her playful skips

Through the flashing


Window to the past

And dance

Amongst the flowers

As trees flaunted 

Their fruit

When the air was clear

And the planet

Not downcast

And future me

Wanted to stretch

And reach out

To the child

Through the wavering


Window to the past

And warn her

Of the End Of Days

If Mankind did not stop


And abusing

All in its path

But future me

The woman

Saw only

As all once was

Through the blinking


Window to the past

As my dying mind

Held on

To thoughts

Of me the child

Before the world

Went mad and all souls

Gasped their last

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Monday, 18 February 2019

Window World...

She sits by the window

Plucking hairs from her chin

Scratching her armpits

Slowly sipping pink gin

Gawping at the rat race

Scuttling on by

As her liver-spotted hand

Swats the odd malingering fly

And she chuckles to herself

In her dusty old house

With the creaking doors

And the three-legged mouse

And she counts her blessings

For all that she's got

Even though some might say

She hasn't got a lot

But she knows different

And she reaches for a fag

Whilst shifting her numb buttocks

Before taking a deep drag

Then straightening the creases

In her tattered old frock

She sways to and fro

To the rhythm of the clock

The clock on the shelf

That no longer tells the time

'Cos the clock's hands are broken

And that suits her just fine

Mithering measured moments

Were never her thing

She'd rather watch the world

Than watch life's pendulum swing

But not the world through TV

Or the half-truths of the press

She prefers to watch her window world

And the march of the obsessed

Who stumble by her tiny terraced

Going about their day

Eyes glued to their iPhones

Their pallor shades of grey

And if she's really lucky

As she chews her morning toast

She'll see a Smartphone idiot

Walk face first into a lamppost

And every time that happens

She splutters crumbs and tea

As laughter overtakes her

Bringing with it a dribble of wee

And all the dust mites scatter

At the strength of her guffaw

Whilst she shuffles off her window seat

To raid her knicker drawer

The drawer shared by her one-eyed cat

And her extra set of teeth

The drawer where Herbert's ashes rest

Tucked safely underneath

The silk chemise he used to love

The blue matching her eyes

Before age gave her cataracts

And before he told her lies

Lies that broke her trusting heart

Teaching her a lesson

Believe in no one but yourself

Solitude can be a blessing

And from that time so long ago

She's loved to live the life

That lets her be just who she is

And not defined by 'wife'

Then as she potters back to look

Her window world in the eye

She briefly thinks of Herbert

And such thoughts widen her smile

As she glances to her back garden

And the scorched patch, hidden well

Where Herbert spent his one last night

Before journeying on to hell

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard