Vulnerability
Thin as the best tissue paper
clear, bright colours
salmon, startling red, pink, and white.
The white ones are first -
tiny but perfect circles;
I have never seen geranium petals
attacked like this before.
Late-season butterflies
which always seem so strong
still flutter by early autumn flowers
dodging away at high speed
when I come close;
they have war-wounded wings
with bites taken out.
My Westie thought
he was a mastiff
till he stood on a wasp
amongst windfall pears
and hobbled around
holding his wounded paw aloft,
an uncomprehending puppy again.
All exhibiting their vulnerability
for us to see
and remark on.
Mine is hidden.
We all think I'm a strong person
we all know I am dealing with a lot
we are all impressed with how
I am organising and getting through
my life and its many troubles;
we know it is hard.
But inside I ache
I weep
I grieve
I long
for a comforting cuddle
from my Mum
from my Dad
from my Mike
and actually from anyone
which I'll never have again.
This is my
hidden
hitherto unspoken
vulnerability.
