Gail Bohle

A stranger passing would never notice
the colour of fynbos
and wild raw woundedness of grief
foaming in a back corner.
By Sandra Hill

Being called…

Curled up,
hugging my body,
huge well of grief.
The bubble protects me
with its golden light.
Swirling body of pain,
heart-wrenching wrongs
unspeakable accusations
from a feverish, jealous, godless mind.
A stranger passing would never notice

my escape. The shy deer treads softly.
Gentle eyes make careful contact
as I turn swiftly, follow him,
my gipsy skirt flimsy,
my body firm, intact.
In nature untamed,
colours glisten,
the colour of fynbos.

Words fly in the ether,
still find their way to my ears,
thrust the unspeakable upon me,
wielding evil power against me,
wounding fatally.
Every fibre rebels.
I reach up, snatch those words,
try to assuage
the wild raw woundedness of grief.

And even here,
where the shy deer treads
and  all is snow covered,
pristine, innocent-seeming,
tight with anticipation,
I wait. I know they will find me.
There is no escape when
a veneer of civilization covers
barbaric cruel hearts
foaming in a back corner.

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3 comments on “Gail Bohle

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