Victoria Hamilton

The Spectre.

Come home.
The phone line’s no use.
It cracks and simmers
At fired souls
And open hearts.
It sucks meaning from words
And love from our chests like
Black holes in deep space,
Or a lifeless embrace,
And it erodes us.
‘A’ roads divide us.
They take slow slices
And turn out
Flesh, salt old wounds.
They blind our eyes and bind
Our hands, a soldiers stance,
Facing empty courtyards.
No firing squad for us,
No angelus bells.

Our pale hands in hands,
Wrap rain soaked pavements,
Clap Rebel bands.
Like October,
You returned with lead lips,
Errigal on your tongue.
The Atlantic streamed through
Your eyes, wild watered blue
While I danced for you.
Nights I stand with pay day
Stars cocktail bars are
Wearing thin.
I’m in doorways and queues
With men who look like you,
But they are not you. Just
Shadows of smoke and
Lust –

There’s a hole in my heart
Like the one in my bed
Because you sleep on your
Chest and I’ve learned to rest
On the fringes of you.

I’m with you,
Not beside you.
I speak for you,
But can’t see your face.
You’re a spectre,
An apparition in
Bleary nights and
Taxi fights,
That old ghost of you.

Come home.

Copyright © Victoria Hamilton 2015

I’m a teacher and spoken word poet from the East End of Glasgow

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About sunnydunny

Poet, publisher, gardener
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2 Responses to Victoria Hamilton

  1. Wonderfully conveyed raw emotions – a moving piece. Thank you.

  2. Victoria Hamilton says:

    Thank you for the kind comment

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