Baby's Breath, poem by Natalie Crick

On rainy days
I give myself per­mis­sion

To touch the glass
And see your remains:

Tis­sues, shad­ows,
All that is left

Of you.
Danc­ing with ghosts

Over dark hills.
Sky­larks, old dear.

When I stand in your old room
I feel so sad that I mas­tur­bate myself.

Bees feast in tar­tan plumes,
Birds hang­ing on threads.

An old don­key hob­bled
Into the mists.

Ring-a-ring-a-ros­es.
A pock­et full of posies.

Your tiny hands trem­ble away
From my throat. Jack-daw.

crickNatal­ie Crick has found delight in writ­ing all of her life and first began writ­ing when she was a very young girl. Her poet­ry is influ­enced by melan­cholic con­fes­sion­al women's poet­ry. Her poet­ry has been pub­lished in a range of jour­nals and mag­a­zines includ­ing Can­nons Mouth, Cyphers, Ariadne's Thread, Car­il­lon and Nation­al Poet­ry Anthol­o­gy 2013.

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