Touch
Childhood has me
with a fevered brow
being gently stroked
and bathed in the cool
of a caring breath
as I lay sick -
recalling, when I was
only six years old,
the electric thrill
that surged through me
when brushed by the shoulder
of Patricia Clark
in a classroom
at primary school
and fell in love -
and feeling
the tense tremble
beneath the feathery soft
body of a pigeon
I cradled in my hands
as it slowly let go,
closed its eyes
and died.
In the prison of its isolation
the soul craves the gift
of touch.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2025
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment