poems, Short poems

I fear you won’t get read.

I fear you won’t get read.


I fear you won’t get read.

Like the unmarried woman.

The weak man, the honest government employee.

Shamed in a stereotype of mediocrity.

I fear you won’t get read.

The untouched in a kinky bed.

The feta cheese that didn’t make it.

The garden we never raked.

Half done and all completed sat on a spinning pebble by God’s great feet.

I fear you won’t get read.

An eye for an eye and I’m seeing red.

28th March and twenty six years on.

I still see how you bled and still feel how you’re gone.

I fear you won’t get read.

What have I done?

Four years and an umarked grave. The only grace in a button called save.

Still tomorrow IS guaranteed, is the type of illusion which we need to believe.

© G.P Williamson 2018





I discovered my loss once I’d found the note.

It wasn’t that you weren’t there that affected me so much.

It’s that you weren’t everywhere.

You weren’t in the kitchen where we laughed.

The dining room where we ate.

The garden, we played or the bedroom we ached.

It was too late.

You weren’t heard in the other rooms.

No clothes, no smell of perfume.

No responce to my voice, no answers, no words.

Just gloom.

I found the note and held it.

You weren’t in my fingers for they were numb.

Nor my heart, was this alone?

You weren’t in my arms… what had I done?

My tears stained the paper, until like you..

…it was gone.


©G.P Williamson 2017