She isn’t absolute, clean cut, polished or separate from struggle
She is alongside reality, walking next to fear
She’s the determined roots of a flower in a coarse bramble-filled field
She is familiar with anger that points to what needs to be made right
Acquainted with pain, sadness and uncertainty, her eyes raw with tears
She isn’t the swooping rescuer that ‘switches off’ struggle or
the floodlight that suddenly obliterates the darkness
She’s the flickering candle, dripping with misshapen wax,
with light maybe enough to reveal one or two faltering next steps
She’s not a flighty wish, passive optimism or “positivity”
She’s gritty, solid yet fragile, scarred from the battle
Courage whisperer, vision musterer, worth affirmer
A presence that says “I don’t know the answer, but I’m here.”
- Ange Disbury -
