Granny’s basket of wools –
pink, blue and green,
orange. Each ball
a strand of DNA
from which a jumper grew –
enduring emblems, reminders,
though garments now outgrown,
of how intricate the threads
and warm the knit of kin.
Granny’s basket of wools –
pink, blue and green,
orange. Each ball
a strand of DNA
from which a jumper grew –
enduring emblems, reminders,
though garments now outgrown,
of how intricate the threads
and warm the knit of kin.
Her photos of generations loved,
posted beside the window,
small box of rings and jewel things,
faded silk flowers,
soft furnishings,
phone, novels.
Crucifix,
Bible.
All packed.
It’s a wonder
her bed’s
not gone.
Now I look, sound,
even think like her.
When will it be my turn?
What’s in between –
sunshine, rain –
before my landfall?
Covid means we poets meet late each Wednesday afternoon
on this veranda of the Writers’
Centre,
this building once an asylum for
those fleeing mental illness.
As the day departs, spirits of long-ago
patients
move quietly among the trees,
free from the fear of death-eaters
and the grip of taunting hallucinations.
I see a prayer tree – perhaps
once used by Celtic patients to post
their clouthies.
signalling their yearning to be
delivered from evil,
their desire to be well again –
and loved.
Before the sun completely sets,
we shall hang our ribbons, and
seek relief
from ‘the infected winter of our
condition.’
It’s not that I didn’t know the danger
but I drove on anyway through the dark,
torrents pissing down.
It’ll only get worse, I thought,
and I needed to get home,
so, I gunned the engine.
I’d reached where the road takes a turn
just before Fred’s farm
and suddenly my truck was floating,
well, sinking actually, water rising
through the cabin floor,
so much water that the electricals all failed.
Scared shitless. I
couldn’t get out:
water was lapping my waist
and would soon be at my chin.
My satellite phone still worked – a miracle
and Fred answered – another miracle.
“I’m on my way,” he said.
I had no idea what he would do.
He’d brought a semi-automatic, of all things.
I wondered if he was going to finish me off!
“Mind out!” he urged.
He shot through the roof –
a circle of fire – like opening
a can of beans with a screwdriver.
I crawled out, weeping, and shaking.
“You’re a bloody stupid bugger!” he said.
“Yeah,” I breathed, “and a lucky one, too!”