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The Gift

There are some days

when this gift I have been given

I would give it way.

I would give it away,


I would wrap up

the nausea and the fatigue,

the swimming head and the shaking,

the anxiety and the apathy

in tissue and shiny paper.


I can see it in my head,

a lumpy parcel shivering on the table.


But, to whom would I give my gift,

my shiny present of deceit.

I wouldn’t wish my gift on anyone.


I cannot give it away.


Instead I should kick that parcel as hard as I could.

Make it sky-rocket into space

until it disappears into the stars,

sucked in and imploded by a black hole.


But.


And there is always a ‘but’.

There are other days.

There are other days,


when I open up that parcel. My gift

and out spills

colour,

lines,

shape,

form

and a thousand words

to describe the world

and all it’s beauty

and I wonder –


if I did kick my gift into the stars

would I chase after it?

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