The Daggers in my Words


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I didn’t see her
crying on the evening beach.
I knew she was there
and why
but I didn’t see her crying there.

I wasn’t there and yet I knew
I felt her pain
because I was the cause
L’amour fait mal
the perpetrator of the hurt

As she stood over the still rock pool
pretending to be looking for the sand crabs
I heard her tears drop into the still sea water,
the ripple that I knew they were sending out
threatening to tell the world
of my reckless disregard

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Without touching
I felt her sobbing against my chest
sharing heartbeats almost
hers racing
as though to beat the tide to the foreshore
mine following after to steady her haste

Her perfume floated to me on the salty air
a reminder, a tell-tale allusion to her presence
a  fragrant sea-balm redolent of only her
an aroma meant to draw me to that distant beach

And yet I was not there
I had no sight of her distress
only the certain knowledge
my senses heightened by the evening’s stillness
by my guilt, and by the opprobrium I deserved

I sensed all that upheaval
the ending of a dream can bring
more hurtful
when that dream had seemed so attainable

Unseeingly I connected with her on that beach
sequestered from the torrent of words
which was to come
by the murmur of the waves
breaking upon the sand
striving for that mark
which would signal the tide turning
and come to that apotheosis
which we had once hoped would be our future
but which now seemed in doubt
if not surrendered
even stabbed in its infancy
  by the daggers in my words   

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Photographs by courtesy of Canadian artist Alma Kerr

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15 thoughts on “The Daggers in my Words

  1. Pingback: Roland’s Ragbag | First Drafts

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