Salty finger tips cling to aching wrist.
hang from cliff hanger shoulders.
Taut chords strangle the hardened neck.
Delivering a weighty head
through brain blowing tedium.
Leaves tangle and soak her skin.
Cool on cheeks, all hot from google alerts.
Eyeballs tense and dry, wanting to weep.
But the heart says gently;
Only hours now, only minutes,
to flashing furzelight freedom!
And you will rise,
high into the layered mist.
For International Women's Day, March 8th, 2013
I never write "poetry" but yesterday, overwhelmed by work, I sat down on the floor exhausted and wrote these words. I called it "Her labour" because it was about work but as I read it back I realised it was also about birthing and liberation. Not sure what "poetry" is exactly but it kind of sounded like a poem to me.......