Emily

May be subject to copyright

She came to me,

cocooned and unwarned,

thinking she was safe in a world

she held tight about her,

as the old crone holds her shawl

against a bullying wind.

Our worlds collide

and she is shocked by my strong

and cutting words.

Walls crumble in confusion

and tears well up.

I glimpse a child

still hiding.

She told me I was hurtful, and I agreed,

my tool of last resort was hurt

against the bitter way she strewed

white rose petals of disdain,

each and every one

with the blood-red mark of pain.

And then she asked my name, 

to know who it was that dare intrude on her

and when I spoke again,

she released her child name into my care

—like a butterfly—

and almost . . .

smiled.

©Copyright Niall OConnor 2014