At the end of the Tunnel.

My heart is a feather. My spirit soars with

new endeavours. Liberated from any trials,

my children comfortably soothed into

their futures.

A second life for me, or a ninth.

Free to pursue the bliss of each day.

No longer encumbered by hefty obligations.

My work is done.

The foundations are sound. The edifice raised

brick by brick will not topple at a mere

gust of wind. We are tethered to weather

a storm.

Nothing short of a cyclone can sweep us 

away. A sound partnership cemented by

love has brought these years of joy.

The worst

of my dismay and dolour are behind.

The thrill is still beneath, graciously

awoken to carry me onwards until

the end.

©susanbauryrouchard

Frost

Crisp white morning. Frost coats the bushes,

the trees. Crunchy grass under foot.

The stars fade into the pale sky while the sun

creeps up over the rooftops. Later blue will

erupt as the beams warm the air. Robin Redbreast

and Master Greentit challenge each other to a crust

in front of the French windows. The chime is still

on the roof beam over the terrace, immobile.

Intricate patterns snake up the gate, ephemeral art

swept by the midday thaw. Droplets glisten on

the leaves of the evergreens. The mercury edges up

and stops, numb.

At teatime the light has ebbed away and the frost

sneaks back over the garden

©susanbauryrouchard

Christmas is over

The Christmas tree is sitting
in the garden. Some needles

shed on the living room floor,

in front of the fire.

The baubles came off reluctantly,

clinging onto the branches.

The Bavarian soldiers still hanging

proudly. The fairies' heads drooping.

All reconciled to their fate of being

stored away in their boxes.

The holiday season is discarded,

but not forgotten, still burning

comfortably in our hearts. Time

to make way for the New Year.

Fresh beginnings. The crocuses

are already snaking up from

the frosty blades. The daffodils 

stems are rising in defiance

of the cold bite. Everyday I watch

the scortching sun pound down

on the players in Australia. It thaws

my bones and frees my spirit. And

the pen runs away with the ink and

soaks the page with thoughts.

©susanbauryrouchard

On the Train

I turn the ticket man
at the station into a sheik.
Surrounded by his wives
and eunuchs, he strolls in
his gardens.

Around the spouting fountains,
dolphins in the waves, lemon
orange and passion fruit enamour
the air with their sweet
scents.

The sheik in his babouche
sits on a stone bench,
launches his hand full
of seeds to the white
doves.

They clatter from the rooftops
down the tropical creeper
onto the dolphins and across
the lawns.

The train’s squeaking and sway
gently rocks my contemplation.
The slow wheels roll on the
rails at a snail pace.

So my sheik keeps me company
on my way across the map.

©susanbauryrouchard

Written in November 2014
from London to Stratford.

We shall never

You will never see the sky again.
We shall not quarrel anymore.
You have set yourself free, left me
behind to experience
the aches of solitude,
and seeing the sun sink
beyond the roofs.
You took up all the room
but it was not your fault.
I cowered, hidden away
in the eaves, grabbing at crumbs.
You would fill the kitchen
with words and I would hurry
out of sight, not wanted,
no place for me.

©susanbauryrouchard

Spring

The cherry tree in full bloom in the rising sun
deserves a picture so I rush out and take it.
To cherish in Winter when the dark wet cold
sets in and my heart is sunken.

©susanbauryrouchard

To my Daughter

She is sailing without the wind,
bobbing on the waves.
Without direction she bales
out onto a smaller raft.
Deadlines on the horizon 
closing in.

What can I do to help her ?
She relies on us but in her mind
a storm struggles
with the sunlight.

Just out of reach the goals she sets
herself flounder with the dusk.
A long time will pass and once again
her eyes will open on the wonders
of the world.

©susanbauryrouchard