"How was your journey?"
The woman began to speak, her calm elegance and natural ability to tell captured the audience. Back then she had been caught in the crossfire, and bore her scars with resilience and calm, their oval indentations, darkened at the edges, pitted into the sheen of the muscle. Arms relaxed, hands folded, she gifted us her time and her story, eliciting a future through her purpose. We became confidantes in an upper room as sunlight through long windows eradicated the outside, allowing our rite of passage.
In the truck, heading out from war, people are silent, a sleepy child’s hand slides from the page.
In the singer’s head the words remain un sung.
The errant verses begin to spin, multiplying in her head while she watches the miles. The train cuts through towards its end point, where a blue sky pierces a glass dome above the escalators. Clean spaces and airy walk ways lead to a room. It is sanctuary, soft edged, warm.
Hours later she is woken by the sounds of a piano, familiar and poignant. Its melody elicits automatic attachment, tears still unshed. Her heart is as lonely as the child, patiently marking the page.
by Jenny Dunbar
Jenny is a published writer of prose and poetry, always inspired by landscape and peoples’ voices. After graduating from the Royal Central School she followed a career in the performing arts and has walked in many worlds. Her work appears in several literary journals and she has written a novel, Sweet Earth, and an anthology, Thoughts of Time. She is also a singer and a potter. Jenny has been nominated for best on the net poetry and the Pushcart prize.