When I woke it was with me,

curled around my shoulders like a scarf

both there and not,

tickling the hairs on the back of my neck

as I shuffled around the kitchen

to brew the tea and start breakfast,

crockery clinking between my hands

while it whispered around me.

Seeing the shadow across the door

brought relief.

The same as when someone balances a plate

too far beyond the edge of a counter

but you can’t do anything except watch it waver

half way between safe and broken.

When it finally hits the ground

shattering into bright, white slithers

that dance across the tiles into every corner

the chord snaps and you can breath again.

It’s the waiting that drains you

until there’s nothing left to give.

Daily Prompt: Premonition 

This is the fourth poem I’ve posted today here on writing and works, I’ve been trying to write more poetry and I’ve found the more I write the easier it gets. It’s also helping me improve my poetry so if you’ve got the time any feedback would be greatly appreciated.

I’d particularly like your thoughts on a piece called Legs Eleven .  It’s a little more political and perhaps personal that my normal fare but I hope it’s a poem with a little more power as well.

Thank you for reading.


  1. This was a beautiful poem. Watching the ill fate of the plate evokes some emotions. I too enter a phase sometimes when I keep writing more than two pieces but I eventually stop fearing my thoughts could became less potent. Maybe we need some break to gather a momentum.


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