Ian Sawicki

Grace

Ian Sawicki has been writing poetry for over twenty years. He is a Manchester born poet, who has dedicated his life to exploration and composition of poetry. His work reflects the many great influential experiences of his life, the pain, the pleasure combined to create new exciting poetry. If anyon…






I reached my bathroom, after a long restless night. A strange sensation barged into my bladder and swirled itself with purpose.

'What the...' I muttered, but did not finish the sentence. I had to get yesterday's departure away from me before I burst.

On return I noticed Grace; an old Victorian beauty, never intended to be a plaything. She was fashioned with an ideal in mind, though time had worked on that and now she blended into the modern world, as whatever you wanted her to be. With a sigh I smiled and remembered her flying in my arms when I was a child, the wonder we used to share in imagination's freedom, sadly lost now to the ravaged pace of age.

'If only I could return to those days.' I whispered softly.
'You can!' Came a reply.

My heart skipped passed the first five seconds, which hovered above my open mouth. Surely this was a dream that visited me. I must be asleep still. But no, there I was, half naked and empty, thankfully.

Grace moved! If I could have left the room I would have, but fear held me tight in its grip.

'Don't be frightened,' she said with a smile.
'I am Heaven-sent.'

Slowly I began to feel my skin again as I watched her expression; a symbol of a distant time, dance across her porcelain face.

With a swoosh! I found myself a child once more. Delight spilled into my heart and I wept with pure joy. Grace was again inanimate, in appearance but not in spirit. Warm pleasure accompanied us as we swirled around the room like two miniature ballerinas; pirouettes of innocence. I lost myself. The future did not exist in this place, the here and now took over and washed us both with intense fascination. As I wondered whether to search out the teacups and teapot a weird feeling approached me, its hat in hand. I felt myself being pulled by some eerie force. Grace fell to the rich patterned carpet with a dull thud and bounced a little before she came to a halt.

Birdsong stole my tears upon awakening. For the first few minutes I just lay there sobbing, the presence of a wish delicately kissing my lips.

'There, there. There, there.' They said soothingly.

It was such a detailed dream. I questioned reality, as I always do when such intensity pays me a call. Grace, she was a dear friend to me in my younger years, no real person had ever come close to that connection we shared then. Maybe today I would go and visit her, unwrap her protective clothing and place her on display for all to see, and perhaps remark on if they so desire.

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