| Creating Corn Circles
Lay gently down beside me,
let your love linger like ripples
close to shore,
and let the fire build.
My nape is hidden, but you
find it under my hair
tasting summer’s salty heat.
Trembling like apple crumble topping I
warm to your touch,
You tempt me.
Begging like a cat who wants the cream.
Cornfields brushed with clouds
and dotted with poppies,
sway in the breath of the sun.
Whilst we roll together in the hay.
Creating corn circles.
Cambodia
Liquorice, dark like toffee
sticks to bone sun-dried.
The sweet-toothed vultures pick
at penny sweets, It’s all they’re worth.
Shoe-laced, still in poverty carpets to be dyed,
whilst dust settles in the eyes
of those who never cry.
Blood thick on hands of neighbours
Salt-caked from the sun,
awaiting retribution,
awaiting loss of limb.
Liquorice, dark like toffee,
clings to scars that heal
and hides the loss of innocence
left to run through fields.
Be There For One O'Clock
I woke early, whilst the rain still made the
Windows misty and you could hear the sound
Of the night, leaving the earth.
Through the cracks, in the mist I saw you,
Head bent over the sink, preparing for homecoming.
It was still early, you are always up before the birds,
Busying yourself with ‘the little things’.
Potatoes peeled, carrots chopped and eggs cracked,
Beef braised, slow roasted.
Half done before I’d wiped the sleep from my eyes
And forced a Sunday morning smite, for my other half...
I pick at toast, not long now until I Leave
Cross the bridge, and through the fens.
In 50 minutes I’ll be there, now you’ll be
Adding the cinnamon to the apple pie,
And dusting the top with sugar.
The smell hunts me down, I drive faster.
I arrive in time for lunch,
Take a deep breath
And ask you to pass the gravy.
Too late to help you, this time.
A Cottage, A View.
(For Alec, a very funny man)
I stood there watching you fold the earth
with a machine of steel.
Folding, turning and churning
putting the seeds to bed.
‘This year the fields will be golden like your hair’ you shouted
and I smiled a smile as big as an ice cream.
From the safety of my Grandparents garden
I could watch seasons being made,
houses and farm buildings decaying
and pheasants rearing young, away from city foxes.
I would sit and swing for hours,
suck sweet nectar,
from the nettles that the bees left behind
and smell the damp earth
warmed by the day’s heat
slowly cooling under the night sky.
For 10 years I followed the same path around the garden,
first being pushed in a buggy,
then guided by two hands,
then one.
Each season brought more heady scented flowers
first pansies, daffodils, tulips and then the scent
of plumb blossom.
Summer brought sticky traps of honey
to hold the wasps away from early fruit.
The aviary held songbirds the colour of sunlight,
their songs singing the world ten times over
and I would whistle back, with rosy cheeks
and golden hair slowly fading.
Over the years,
my hair turned mousy,
the red in my cheeks slowly left
and the farn buildings became more restless
finding their sleep closer to earth.
Roofs began to peel back,
the machinery, exposed.
But you are still there,
folding the fields behind my grandparent’s home
preparing for another season
and hoping this year is easier than the last.
Your tractor, now red with rust
and your scalp, kissed by the chill
of early morn.
I’ll keep a smile for you
in the same place! keep a picture
of my Grandparent’s cottage,
in the lay by
by the lane.
War Torn
Vapour curls kiss enamel leaving a tearstain
to remind me of that time
when make-up bruised my eyes
and salt water burned my scars.
Gun-shy dust had found the courage to run from my folds
and cleanse itself in the soapy ocean.
It will take years to wash the filth from my body,
and wire-wool to ease the pain.
Your crime - a diversion for the tongue
was not seen to be part of war,
yet I am left, my body staining the pathways
that you fight for, and my clothes blood-red
for surrender, barely fit.
The dust settles,
steam cools my bruises,
soap smoothes my scars,
the fight still goes on
with only ashes left to wash in....
The Smiling Dead
They are with you in the storms,
Lime waxed and weather beaten
brushing the hair away from your face.
They are there with handkerchiefs,
sodden to the last thread with spit
washing off the dirt, from the dust of the day
You eat the words of the wise
and mock the kid who picks the dandelion
still yellowed by its youth.
He’ll be the one with the wet bed
and stinging sores in the morning
crying for attention - not you.
And you lie still - counting pictures in the clouds
wanting it to last for ever.
A generation’s gap joined together
by childish ways; sweets before tea time
and steaming mugs of chocolate in bed.
The eerie silence of night comes calling,
In my duvet I am safe:
Mummified by your love, his love.
Memories are made easier with each new breakfast
and made harder with each pang of remorse.
New tea tastes stale: Mornings should be soulful, a new day.
‘Love hurts’ they say
and so do the dead, when they smile at you.
The Shining
(The need for a poet to be pushed every now and then is vital,
without it they wouldn't try)
He called me, tracked me down from long ago
and fed me truth from a silver tongue.
I stopped running from that day,
picked up my pen
and listened to the voices
that turned tides.
He made me shine
a beacon to melt the frost,
and words to move the clouds.
He gave me strength
to fight the block
and in return
I give my life.
Picking Lemons
I watched you pass the butter,
pass the salt, pass the past around the table.
Play ball with my memories
and feed my family with your jokes,
you know - the ones you played on me.
The time you scared me out of my skin by
pushing a frog under my nose and telling me to kiss it.
That slimy heap of snot that was resting
between your fingers
was all that stood between you and me.
You could say it was my messiah,
granting me unconditional leave of absence
and giving you the school boy rush you wanted.
When we began to grow, you became more daring
chasing me through citrus groves,
pressing me hard into the ground
and demanding I shout mercy.
With tears in my eyes, I’d shout out loud
you’d fill my mouth with grass
and call me a cow,
saying only cows ate grass.
I always fell for it.
Later came the chase,
I learned to slow down, just in time
for you to pin me hard against the floor,
with the damp earth underneath my head.
I didn’t shout, instead I let you kiss me,
closed mouthed and then opened.
I fell for you, the way I fell for your jokes,
the way I fell for your dominance
and strengths.
I fall for you, the way I fall
when you press my head sharp against resting stones.
And I can’t cry mercy loud enough,
when you make me.
Now kisses are open mouthed so you
have room enough to fill me your poison.
Bitter tasting, like the first lemon of the season.
Ironing
(A thank you to my Nan)
I was 17 the first time I found your wisdom.
I came to you with my insides ripped out
Despairing at the word of parental control.
You picked up the pieces.
Putting me back together with love and warmth.
I held you
Your cuddle. ironing out the creases.
Advice was always ready.
Armed with a cup of tea we’d talk things through
My tears, evaporating in the steam rising from the cup.
Sympathy never tasted so sweet.
As we talked I turned to wax..
You moulding you, into me.
Now I find you here, some five years later
In my kitchen, drinking tea.
A 50 year age gap bridged by love.
We talk and laugh swap life and lessons learnt
Whilst you, a person with the strength of Samson
And the backbone of Atlas.
Holding all the wisdom of the world in your hands
Offer to do my ironing. |