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I dream —
she glides wet-suited
no oxygen
steps off stone
into dark water
no splash.

The summons came during Carnival time —
Gothic masquerades —
I tore the curtain across.
She gurned before
breath left her.

By a fenny lake
the glinting mink
startles by my foot
and plunges mud-ward.
I glance at the sky
dark as star-held aubergines
the sheen of its black back.
Totemic warning of
the pulmonary pulse of life pumping
from his stick-like wrists
as he gripped her neck —
I. still . want . to . live.

The wicker casket
and the Christmas
blackbird’s notes
echoing through silver-birch boughs,
and the antlered oak,
beckoning memories
of other notes,
quicksilver fingers —
the Blüthner —
I sat beneath at three
Dust motes quaver
settling over the keys
like ash.

©Rosalind Watson 2014
Written for and performed at the Schubertiade, Rhosygilwen, October 2013.

Ros Watson has been a teacher all her working life in the secondary state system and in prisons and in a psychiatric unit before retiring. She and her husband Paul have been converting a barn in West Wales and continue to build around themselves. Freed from full time teaching and family commitments she found time to both write and paint. She is an active member of the PENfro Poets and finds great inspiration in the history and scenery of this area from the sea to the Preselis.