by Roslyn Ross

I am waiting for that moment,
when life sets again, after melting,
like jelly, liquefied, unstable,
sloshing at the edges with every

movement of the heart, rippling
with every shudder of mind,
spilling in slow slide with each
tipping of Soul, as it moves

against the sides of Self, as it
is contained within the bowl
of being, shimmering, clear
and resonating with potential,

which requires only that slow
congealing from outside, into
the expectant centre as all
firms into something which

is sure, steady, moving only
barely with the touch of
hesitant fingers of feeling;
no longer without form, and

unreliable; no longer unable
to hold a certain shape, no
matter how often it is rudely
knocked — at last confirmed.


Days mark time for me in
bitter expectation, knocking
on the door of waiting, which
desperation has surely locked,
as lingering minutes stand,
in line, ready to be called,
but hearing only silence,
that hanging in a universe

of possibility, breathing
songs choked of potential,
lying in deceitful wait as
glittered, bitter hoping,

quiescent in remission of
what might be, and all that
I had wished; dormant is
my heart, held in latent

intermission as futures
hide abeyant, now that you
are gone and love huddles
in the recess of my being —

time is now postponed
and the angels counsel
patience and acceptance,
of the long, dark wait.

IMAGE: “Black Bowl” by George Seeley (1907).

Ros profile

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Roslyn Ross is an Australian writer and poet who currently lives in Africa. She has been writing poetry since she was a child and has also completed five novels and one work of nonfiction.