Waiting to be Astonished
As a child I collected atoms of possibility,
a fluid, golden string of beads
some full of hope, others of fear.
My Granny gathered pebbles from beaches,
urged me to transfer fear to stone
safely stored in glass stoppered bottles
as if containment could make dread disappear,
the underside of gritty sand rubbed smooth,
erasing sharp chins of chance from rock.
She was full of superstition and liquor,
my Granny, preferring to stash omens
swirling like amber grain in her brain
the decanter slowly shifting, floor tilting
until the bottle toppled from table edge
releasing a scatter of thoughts with a glug,
fears spilling in an arc, shuffled
at random as cards from the Tarot
re-arranging the patterns of fate.
Myself, I prefer to think of hope,
its round vowels an open mouth
waiting to be astonished.
Kate Young lives in Kent and is passionate about poetry and literature. After retiring, she has returned to writing and has had success with poems published in magazines internationally and in Great Britain. She is presently editing her work and writing new material, particularly in response to ekphrastic challenges.