The Wise Water

Wow 2016 has been somewhat brutal and whenever I am faced with harshness I tend to go back to what has got me through school bullies, heart breaks, divorces, differences and well… just life. I write.  Whilst writing the following poem, I was reading Liz Lochead, Carol Ann Duffy and Joanne Harris and thank goodness, because they have re-taught me to just write, write and write and if its just for yourself then so be it.

So, here is the result. Its for Bowie, Lemmy, Rickman, Emily, the whales and unborn realities.


The Wise Water


I cried in the cold morning on the day Bowie died.

My heart reached out to his, searching for a sign

that life might be a waterfall that comes from a mountain.

He gave me black harmonies, telling me everything I need.

To just twist  with it all till my flood merges into the sea.

Remembering to read, write and love at each turn.

It is the only way to stop the waste & its terrible burn.


I cried in the hot afternoon on the day you left.

My voice was so shaken, I could not pay the kiosk man

and I crumbled into the boxes of fruit juice.

I wrote you a poem, it will never be enough but it stops

me from checking your old text messages.

The comfort of knowing that our last time, I did say ‘I love you’.

Now everyone I love gets told whether it’s the end or not.


I cried in the cold morning  on the day the whales beached.

My soul reached out to theirs, hoping I could wish each

back to the uncertain safety of the tireless and wise water.

Remarkable giants cut by us, shredded by the rocks.

I did not go and see them, to take a last photo

In my mind I poured water on their breaths, my memento

is to sob each time I think of them.


I cried on the days when you were all born.

My nieces and nephews coming into the world,

the latest boarders in this 5 star crazy guest house.

Unbelievable bliss at watching you all grow.

I sing a tune for each one of you when the light gets dim.

Never jealous for what might have been, I just keep –

looking into your eyes & your future takes me with it.


I will cry plenty more times, this is one habit I won’t give up.

My tears are the slipstreams that let my life roll

down to its rivers, where the people that matter meet.

We hold each other till our fingers crinkle under the water.

Their hands will be the final touch I grasp, as the tide

captures me and drives me into the depths of no understanding.


By Keely Mills

Feb 2016