This thing called Poetry Space

Sometimes
I wonder why
I started this thing called Poetry Space.
And then
an old lady in her hospital bed,
lost and confused
breaks her silence
and the bodies of the drowned
are looked for over and over again.
A tear falls,
and tiny fingers soft as silk
suture an open wound.

Two readings by Poetry Space poets yesterday and I started to write in prose what it meant and then a poem took over. This is for Sylvia Perry, and  Beverley Ferguson and for everyone in the audience yesterday at two very special events celebrating A Kindness and Flowers in the Blood, both beautiful collections.