Elaine Battersby

A voice of truth, of reason,
speaks out with splendid clarity,
dismissed by raised newspapers and turned heads.
Indifferent to his words his truth.
...

Awakening
...

My world seems much smaller now.
Lonelier, more hostile.
I feel imprisioned in my body.
Trapped, restricted, by my aching limbs,
...

When you look at me the way you do,

you are the sunshine in my cloud.
...

She 85 years young
With a mind of her own,
and a will of steel that's for sure.
Not afraid to speak out,
...

My grandma, before she was dead.
Naught wrong with world, it's people in it.
I think you could say, it's the same today,
As it was of yesterdays.
...

I saw her from a distance.

Body swollen and slouched, she sat motionless,
Sad
...

Dishes, dishes every where,

But, I’m the cook, so I think that’s fair.
Dishes, dishes, everywhere.
...

Like nomads of the sky, they roam, restless.relentless.
Their shapes and colour forever changing.
Echoeing the mood of our souls.
Dark, light, optimistic, angry.
...

You pass then bye withour even noticing them.
And if you do, you dismiss them as being to grey, to old.
In your percieved importance and arrogance,
you mock their slowness, their faded looks.
...

Sitting on the top deck,
I watch the swirling lights,
shine brightly on the rain
lashed paines, late at night.
...

You autumn beauty, with your patchwork coat of
red, green and gold, such elegance.
Your rich tapestry of golden splendour,
brightens our grey streets.
...

Their love, beauty and innocence,
Can touch your heart, your soul.
Eyes shining, they watch your every move.
Waiting for your smile,
...

Captivated as I am by you, free, I feel
My soul is light, ungoverned, like a bird,
Never knowing where the wind may take it,
But always knowing of its return.
...

From hunter to scavenger,
She wearily searches for food.

Cold and hungry, she has herself,
...

He has gone to god now.
Finally, he is at peace, at rest.
His final days, tragic, desperate,
Lonely,
...

Did you hear my words.
Not just the words,
But the meaning,
The story, the love
...

He was a man of his time, his class, a worker.
My father.
As I child, he told us of his war days.
And my brother and I watched and listened,
...

Oh, were in trouble
Some ones burst the bubble,
Europe is at war again,
No boots, rifles, or bombs in sight this time.
...

I am silent,
only a soft and gentle flow
of clear blue water caresses my brow.
...