Vicky Newham




Her hair smells of wood smoke.

Like her life, a tangle of garden twigs.

The sad-eyes of a worried dog

Which burn in the dark,

Naked and bruised,

The whispers of life’s battleground.


Her home is like her mind:

The worn treads of solitude and the wasted heartbeats,

A capsule of energy

Buffeted by the dizzy swirl of the elements,

And a river of blood

From the lost, the stolen, the fallen.


Hers is the blind gaze of watchful eyes.

The stains of yesterday’s memories echo off the walls of her mind.

A heart drawn by the lure of what might have been

Into the limbo of loss,

And wisps of hope

Amidst the murky waters of someone else’s life.



Vicky Newham © 2015

Author: Vicky Newham

Vicky Newham is a writer, living in Whitstable, Kent. She writes crime fiction, psychological thrillers and science fiction. Her main projects are novels, but she also writes short stories, flash fiction, non-fiction articles and some poetry.

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