Echo. Poetry by Ysella Sims


They watch the screen, punch-pleased, 
as the sonographer traces slow circles 
on her belly and the room dulls 
to a thick, cloistered hush.

In another room, smaller, colder, 
the world rends, roils 
beneath the blue plastic sofa 
while they wait for the midwife 
to tell them, it doesn’t look good.

In the weeks between, they lean 
against the cool bark of the witching tree 
on the heath, whisper pleas 
into its tessellations, 
stick stray feathers into the sand, 
to arrange their wishes, just so. 

And when it is time, she lies still,
             oh-so-still on the table
holds her breath,

Outside, a morning of crows, 
murdering the brumal air 
with clatter and chaws, 
the carnival flash of parakeets
at the Richmond window.

The scent of crab apples mustering on the 
Octobered heath as they reach home 
in the dark;
the jolt of her keening
when the door was closed.

Sun breaking through dank
in the gorse-crowned fields
to colour the sky sugared pink
starling egg blue;
the sweet heft
of a pear-sized ghost in her arms.

If you enjoyed Ysella Sims, you should read Pym Schaare

Ysella Sims is doing a Masters in Creative Writing at Plymouth University

About the contributor

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