Black
White & The Grey
A
familiar feeling crept over me like a crochet blanket,
Warm
but drafty, I could smell the dust that had settled.
Petrified
as the blood gushed through my veins,
Only
the silence to answer my commiserations.
You
cannot speak, for no one knows your tongue,
Two
black doors unopened but unlocked.
The
world outside black, without patience,
Toeing
the sun to greet the day, hours disperse.
Becoming
dim and the moment arrives, inky black
Too
exposed with little whim it fades to grey.
Developing
a frame of time from an old picture,
Again
the stop bath halts it deepening, leaving only the grain.
Unpicking
the tight threads in the blanket with a blunt knife,
The
other weaving onto it’s existence.
The
bulb stark and white bleaching the paper to nothing,
Only
the scratches still remain and the paper is wasted.
By Jodie Cresswell
Aug 09
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