Hope is being a small child

And wanting a red bike,

Then watching in horror

As your parents buy one

With a blue frame;

You turn resolute

And choose

Not to ride it,

So it stays in the garage

Where it rusts slowly

Until it’s sold

At a local carboot,

And then you want it again

Hope is longing to go

To a party

Attended by all

Your classmates;

There’ll be jelly, and ice cream,

And a bouncy castle

And face painting,

And a clown,

Though admittedly

You’re terrified

And wouldn’t accept

A balloon animal they’ve made,

But still you want to go,

And it’s not ‘til weeks after

That you find the invitation

At the back of your desk drawer,

The RSVP too late

Hope is being an adult,

Made delirious by choice;

You can be this or that,

Anything you’ve dreamed

Infinitely various,

All your desires encompassed

In the paths you can tread

To make it to the top,

When really you don’t have

A head for heights,

And you want it to stop

And it’s easier to succumb to vice

When not all directions point up

Hope is being in love,

And bargaining for love in return,

Though passion isn’t for sale,

And it takes years and years,

Person after person,

And either you forget,

Or you realise it’s an exchange,

A trade to be bartered,

Held fast with flowers,

Dinners, keepsakes, possibly a ring

To extend the lease

On a shoestring budget,

The romance no less diminished

With fixed rates

Hope is wanting

Life after death;

Wanting a dialogue

To be half softly spoken

That even with its stilted language,

Its pauses,

Doesn’t mean it has ceased;

Perhaps you can’t believe

That living comes to an end,

Or that there’ll be grass

Growing over a silent grave

Whilst the bereaved give name

To loss and clichéd eulogies

And clutch at memories and grief

Punctuated by stories

Of what alive you did;

And in a way you’ll get this last wish

Though you won’t be around

To endure its sad bliss



Amber R Walker, Hull, Creative Writer, Bookmaker, Lover of art

One thought on “Hope

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