The Marshflower

It is dark where she is

A sprout, from the crevices of a bulb,

When she blinks, there are four white walls,

Again,

A carpet soaked in blood,

Again,

A harsh, braying alarm bell,

…again.

The tiny flowers growing next to her are afraid,

But the bulbs are immobile,

How can I move them?

Are they safe?

People who love you don’t hurt you

That smiley woman from the station says,

Slowly, her words soaking in,

Like the blood in the carpet.

Every time I open my mouth,

It feels that all the air is gone,

I am deprived of breath,

I am tired and sore.

There are shadows, but no light,

In that room with the white walls,

And the carpet,

Soaked in blood,

Entrenched in fear.

The moon is a ten-pence piece,

On the cold black floor of the warehouse,

Aching, she bends to take it in her hands,

Briefly, she is holding the moon,

She is all powerful,

She is above ground,

Until she clocks out,

And goes home,

And that alarm rings again.

It’s dark where she is,

Growing through the frozen earth,

She follows the warmth of the sun,

The beaming face that implored,

“Tell me what’s going on at home, and be honest.”

Like the mighty marsh-flower, she is a chink in the armour of the austere world,

The beauty that appears when you least expect to see it,

She grows through it all,

Until tomorrow comes,

And then can she thrive,

She is the first light of spring,

The flourishing flower of bravery,

She is the marsh-flower,

Growing through, going through,

Until the daylight breaks.