My Heart

Ten years
Has my heart been
Slumbering in beds of
Somnolent roses.
All pink and dewy and tender,
And half asleep.
I didn’t intend to nap
For so long,
But the peace was
Heaven, and
Why wake when
Dreams paint such
Sweet, pastel visuals
On my iniquity?

If I see through my heart,
Then there are
No shadows.
Only the softest
Of glimmers
From a moonlit
Sea of
Ethereal emotions.
And if I hear?
Then dissonance
Has no hope amidst the
Resounding clamour
Of clandestine whispers.

And if I feel?
Then I reign with Neptune
In the realm
Of the ocean,
And my senses are
My promise and
My passions are
A premise

And
My heart
Is a gift.

Sarah Drury 2021

Easy

It is not easy
being so sentient
in an anaesthetised world.
I try and fold my feelings
into little origami ships.
Hope they will sail
nonchalantly into
a world where
life doesn’t sting,
anymore.

I can pretend it
doesn’t hurt.
Pretend I have a
heart of polished granite.
I can pretend that feelings
must only feel like
fireworks in the
new year’s sky.
That to feel is
to loiter somewhere
on a permanent,
spiritual high.

But I know
to be real
I need to feel
the stain
of salt kissed tears.
To sing the pain
as it washes through;
it never stays.
And I know I am there,
sometimes.
Origami ships are fragile,
and my skin is like
tissue paper,
and I absorb
the world at times.
And it can be too much.
Sometimes.

But,
it never stays.

Sarah Drury. 2021

Empty Chair

Written for my late husband, who passed away almost ten years ago.

As the warm,
comforting glow of
Yuletide shenanigans,
wraps itself around
my melted heart.
As the last candle on
the mantel,
sings a soliloquy and
melts into new
incarnations of its waxy self.
And the ten years since you
rendezvoused with
the light side,
I see your chair
all empty there.
Missing you.

That last Christmas.
Heaven knew
that the angel of time
was pausing
her inhibiting breath,
whilst you cherished your last.
We gasped those last months
in expanses of
winterscape lungs.
And I don’t know
but I’m sure the universe
painted our visions
titanium white,
what with the snow and
cerulean, stark winter sun skies.
I see the space in our bed.
The place where once was
mortal.
All empty there.
Missing you.

I knew you’d be here.
And you were.
Amidst the shreds of gaudy
and rips of tearing carnage.
Presents from a widow’s
best efforts.
Brave smiles, well-rehearsed
after ten years of
Xmas dinners for two
and only one big one
at the table.
Playing secret Santa
and making all the
responsibilities
look easy.
There should’ve been
Frolicking with crackers,
and snapping away
our feigned hilarity
as we tossed lame jokes
into joyous memories.
But turkey’s for two
now.
Your plate all empty there.
Missing you.

Sarah Drury 2020.

Kansas

Inspired by The Wizard of Oz.

We’re not in Kansas anymore,
Dorothy.
That yellow brick road,
paved with childhood dreams
and nothing’s real,
it seems.
No place like home
is a metaphor
for tossing daydreams
on the floor
and moving on.
Always feeling you’ve
met the one,
and sacrificing hearts
on platters of gold.
Kisses going cheap
and desires burning
brash and bold.
Passion consuming
barren chasms
and all the times you told
me I was jealous.
Wasn’t my fault
your appetite
was overzealous.

But we’re not in Kansas anymore,
Dorothy.
And you can sing your songs
of bluebirds in the sky,
and I’ll cherish this moment
with no one asking why
I live in my dreams.
Fantasies proving high
upon my rosy specs.
But no one really checks
the spectrum of rainbows.
Hearts love in myriad shades of pink,
and where the black goes
I don’t know.

But it’s nice here.
Shedding happy tears
and taking in the view.
Trading in the past
for futures that I
always knew.
And we’re not in Kansas anymore,
Dorothy.
Not going back
with the naïve clickety clack
or your ruby red shoe.

Sarah Drury

Ice Maiden

(Original art by Sarah Drury)

I’ve been here too long.
Sitting in this barren kingdom.
Breath exhaling, moist to crystalline,
and my lungs cascade.
Plumes of a pulmonary, lovesick swan.
Both yearning for a mate.
This colourless existence
bleaches our beauty.
The whiteness,
oh, the whiteness,
is killing me.

They say I have a frosty heart.
Icy, gliding frozen tears
like winter butter
across the surface of an artic lake.
And I taste like tender Eskimos
as I glaciate myself in igloos
and my door becomes a sheet of ice.

It’s been so long
since you held me in furnace arms,
my love.
I always dreamt of happy ever afters.
Never thought the crows of death would stalk me,
and I’m choking on black feathers.

I’ve tried, my love, I’ve tried.
Till my eyes were the glistening moon
and the sun dare not even
speak your name.
I’ve played the sorry widow.
Years floundering in the memory of us.
It was not just your death.
I died too.
The glacial landscape beckoned me.
Frozen teardrops my rendezvous,
and the ice-maiden took me
as her own.

Sarah Drury 2020