Poem by Jonathan Butcher


 

Our Last Walk

Under the shadow of that imposing grey mass of steel
and concrete, we make the drink filled promises of ill
thought out reunions, that never for a sober minute
would ever be considered rational.

Your fingers clamped to the cigarette papers, now slightly
aged and cracked, your wit now seems cut with the weakest
substitute, just like your powders; diluted beyond recognition
and you assumed we didn’t notice.

That scar upon your left cheek that you would finger when
making a point, the bottle circulating next to your knee.
We would pray for an encompassing silence, to stifle the
fear drawn from your credulity.

The bruises left on rib cages like rain stained rose petals,
answered any question asked incorrectly, but we have now all
caught up with your withered expectations, but under this warming
sun now even your shadow looks old.

 

Photography © Steve Warren

 

Jonathan Butcher is a poet based in Sheffield, England. He has had poetry appear
in various print and online publications. His second chapbook ‘Broken Slates’ was
published by Flutter Press.

Steve Warren’s interests are in the healing arts, poetry, photography, dance, the nutritional arts and much more. He is a peer specialist in the recovery movement.

 

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