What is this vision of death before me?
is this what they call the end?
this figure dressed as winter’s breath
who gives a loving push over the edge
I see, myself falling
falling off this cliff top
like a spoon stuck in a jar of honey
how can these be my hands gripping the rail
they are old and soft, worn leather
with lines of confusion weaving to and fro
with lines of confusion weaving to and fro
the cliff face gets smaller and smaller
seagulls scatter
flooding away from the scene
when did I begin to wear knitted jumpers with misshapen cats sitting on my chest
flexing their paws
my fingers outstretch towards the sky
my head splits on a rock
the sea bubbles with my blood
why do I feel like I have been here before
when life was free and love was divine
the sun would never go down
the sun would never go down
I see, myself
just, nowhere
just, nowhere
Nowhere. Not even here
on this very spot
with the grass between my feet
crushing the daisies with my toes
watching them bleed pollen
I put them to a peaceful end
I see, the end of me…
By Emma Jane Mackay
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