For Penny

in

I think of you,
my sister lost to me.
I wonder
at your arrival.
What did our mother wear?
Was her hair matted against her brow?
And when she saw you,
did she gather you into her arms?
Could she love you for a moment, 
a singular moment when
she looked to you to breathe, 
to cry?
But there was nothing.
A life cut short too soon.
I cannot ask, for this is not my mourning.
But still I feel it.
A soft keening in the night hours.
She mourns you still
with her unacceptable anguish.
I feel it too, but lesser of course.
For with you, there could be no me
And so in a way I am grateful.

The Fog

in

At 3am I wake.
A catalog of lists
revolves inside my head
Endless things to do and say
ideas that will
not stop.

But I am weary.
I do not want
false friends.
My body craves
a dreamlessness
that hovers
just outside of reach.

I toss and shift,
eyes open, 
alert, watchful.
I am ready,
but for what?
I sigh, turn again
and start to count.

Sleek as an Otter

in

Sleek as an otter
your fishy flesh flashes
quick silver in the hot light of noontime.
In the murky dark your skin stands stark against it,
before disappearing once again.

You are
in your element.
Undeniable.
There is no you, no it, no other.
Just light, movement, splash and sinew.
You slip through my fingers.
Just when I thought I had you
you are gone.

Longing to Breathe

in

Eyes tight shut
deep breath
I pinch my nose.
Now. Now!
I leap.
Legs wide
elbows out.
I am
suspended,
before I fall and fall
and then
water rushes up to meet me. 


I am under.
Sucked into
murky depths of
muddy blackness.
Knees buckle to break my fall,
mud squeezes through my toes,
I push now,
up and up,
I kick and fight for the light.

Sensing the surface I feel
the light on my face,
the water warmer and
my face meets the air.
Oh the air! I gasp.
Exhilaration rips through my chest
and at last I breathe, 
deeply, longingly, I breathe.
Floating now,
water billows about me,
holding me,
I surrender.

Before Thinking

in

It was such a pitiful cry
like something animal, 
a mewling.
We did not know
at first.
Then we ran, 
our hearts knowing,
our legs moving
before thinking.

Twisted and frightened
you lay crumpled.
Like a pile of laundry
left outside in the rain,
grass-stained and sodden-wet,
all of a boy in a fearful jumble,
hard to piece together.

We gathered you up
and carried you in.
We iced your bruises,
and fed you chocolate.
All tenderness and efficiency,
we felt carefully
for breakages.

Today you fell too far from the tree,
but tomorrow you will climb again.
We will hold our breath
and try not to be watchful
for tomorrow you will climb again.

 

 

A Hard Day

in

I’m thinking of you today, she said,
it’s a hard day.
I blinked, pulled up short.
The meaning of the day now cast anew.

I had been celebrating
with my son’s father and
my husband’s father and
I was not thinking of him.

I wasn’t thinking of his “Would you terribly”s and “Ever so kinds”. 
Of his polyester pants and the chemistry stains.
Of the Sunday roast in his wingtips and tie,
and the cups of tea forever.

I wasn’t thinking of his inky fingers and scrappy mustache,
Of the morning crossword and his fountain pen,
Of the crumpets at tea time and the curries on Friday,
and the beer and smokes forever
yes, the beer and smokes forever.

 

 

Vulpes vulpes

in

Softly, he pads through the brush, 
snout forward, tail low, 
sniffing the air. 
His hunger is sharp,
metallic on his tongue.

Within, a low rumble of unease
disturbs the roost.
Still somnolent they stir. 
Feathers tremble as fear folds in
like the evening mist.

He sees them now, his pulse quickens.
Salivating he starts to pant,
smelling the promise of a 
belly full.

Careworn

in

At the very bottom of the
embroidery box
lies a tangled mess of thread.

The skeins are loose, 
no longer tightly bound.
The ends frayed,
colors fatally faded.

Careworn hands that 
once held family together, 
stitch by stitch,
now struggle to straighten.

She smoothes her skirt upon her knee.
Staring absently, she recalls a life
negligent with its neglect
of the necessary.

She sees that now.
What mattered.
Picking at a loose thread
she tries to tie it off,
to make it right.

Time for Bed

in

Small voices carry through
the thick and languid air of evening.
The scent of honeysuckle is rising 
yet still they play.

Calling to each other, chattering
like chickadees, they chase
and flit from tree to gentle tree.
I hear them,
counting now. 
10, 9, 8, 7, 6 ….
“Careful!” 
An older voice.

Night draws on.
It is past suppertime, but
time yawns and stretches, 
reluctant to relinquish the day.

Demands of bus and homework 
pushed aside.
These are the long days of 
bug bites rubbed raw
and ice-cream in the afternoon, 
just because.

There’s crying now, murmurings of comfort 
and chastisement.
Wounds are soothed and tears are wiped, 
it’s time to go to bed.

Not Quite Captured

in

Not quite captured, yet
not quite free.
Your scaly skin
curls around my wrist, almost
a caress.

In vain you reach for me,
with teeth too small to
pierce my skin.
You are nonetheless
relentless.

This struggle offers no surrender.
You sense my fear, you
anticipate.
And though this is 
no even match,
you may outwit me yet.

Night

Why does the mocking bird 
sing at night?
You are so loud, 
calling for your mate.
My insomniac friend,
you are
pitiful company.
Shadows loom large 
in our hours of wakefulness.
I cannot sleep for worry
and regret.
And yet, sleep does come.
Unconsciously I yield.
Giving up, too tired 
to bother.
My pencil my solace
slipping from my hand.

TEASPOONS

in

The silver spoon
sits upon the kitchen
table, tarnished and
stained with tea.
What can it tell me of you?

I know the sound it makes
against the cup;
the clink tink of
polite conversation.

I know too its shape
upon the back of
my tongue.
Its sticky sweetness
and the tang of metal
against my teeth.
Felt to the marrow.

Our hearts hum in unison
as the steam snakes
upward and we slowly warm
ourselves.

Number 504

in

You left me your secrets
in a dusty box,
hidden in the eaves 
of the garage.
You were unknown to me, 
but I imagine you, bent over,
shuffling to the kitchen,
your dressing gown tied loosely
at your waist.

The milk sits solitary on the refrigerator shelf,
already sour.
I see you, sitting alone 
in your customary chair,
waiting out the long 
afternoon;
watching memories 
dancing on the walls in 
empty frames.

Your arthritic, yellowed hands reach
for yet another cigarette.
The air hangs heavy.
Cinders drop on the frayed carpet by
your cold and dirty toes.

The Call

in

I’m glad you rang.
That we talked in bright 
and sunlit tones,
exchanging our 
How are yous? 
and 
What’s the news?
No-one would guess what
lies beneath our
cheer.
The weight of silence 
feels stone-cold.
We skip perilously by and
do not stop.
You really do not know,
no-one calls me Sally 
anymore.

She Glows Golden

in

She glows golden.
This honeyed girl 
of puckish charm
is everything
of woman
yet
small-made.
Like a 
whorl of nested twigs,
she is a delicacy
of intention.
Defined with purpose
yet still forming,
she is still
not quite ready. 

 

The Weight of the Thing

in

Tell me then
why did we not share this news?
To be found is to be known
so 
tell me.
Why did we bury it in the backyard
with the forget-me-nots 
and the potatoes?

With measured step
I trod lightly,
lest the bracken’s crackle 
herald my ungainly arrival. 

I may yet
disappear.

And though the old pear 
may rot on the sill,
each sapling carries within it
its own 
inevitability.

The soil of regret may
nourish still.