Month: September 2015

And if I loved forty

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And if I loved forty,
it would be for the sweet joy
of confidence in a room.

And if I loved forty,
it would be that I
knew my place
– inside out.

And if I loved forty,
it would find me able
to sit awhile with someone sad
and mourn.

And if I loved forty,
it would be to see dear friends children
grow old enough to make me
a cup of tea.

And if I loved forty,
I would embrace quiet,
evenings by myself
a blessing of solitude.

And if I loved forty,
it would be for long views still
of growing, and of grandeur.

And if I loved forty,
it would be for patience,
and for knowing
that all things are made new.

And if I loved forty,
my friends too would be
grown and worn into
comfortable grooves of
loving kindness.

And if I loved forty,
I would be wise.

moonlight conker

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In the blackness
scuff leaves searching
for autumn treasure,
crouch down
nearer to the ground.
(Risk of being run over.)
Is that a gleam
of brown sheen?
Tipsy with delight,
I dart and seize
a conker.

Note to poem: As a child, conkers were highly prized.  The nearest chestnut tree to our school was inevitably frequented by children who lived nearby, leaving me and my brothers with a much-diminished chance of finding our own unblemished fruit. As an adult, I live near a horse-chestnut tree myself and still feel the wonder of a continual abundance of conkers at all times of day, but especially night.

back to school

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a nip in the air
that by half past two
will have disappeared leaving
a winter uniform
radiating polyester
heat.

new bag, new pencil case,
new pen, new ruler,
all rigid with first day nerves,
soon will have stories
written all over them.

a freshly made packed lunch
two sandwiches, crisps, an apple,
will not be fully eaten
til day three.

I’ll never be this early for the bus again.

the double

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The girl who lives
in the house like mine
with the sitting room like mine
and the coffee cup like mine
and the cat like mine
(in my imagination)
and the carpets like mine
and the sofa like mine
(Ercol, again, slight wishful thinking)
and whose presence I have
every time I ran past
her house found
strangely reassuring
(you could see straight in the window
until she frosted the glass)
for the last eight years
has moved.

I am bereft.
Who am I?

the schedule

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my day was
scheduled to death.
every slot too small to
fit a human.
I had to hope
that no-one had any
curiosity left in them.
or everything would
fall apart.

I was lucky;
they had all forgotten
what life was –
if they ever knew.
obediently they toed the
schedule line,
retrieved themselves from
exuberance.
someone had bad news from from home,
regrouped in a
coffee break,
swallowed sadness and
cappuccino straight down,
got back in the game.

all around us autumn beauty
unfolded steady as a
queen.
we had four point five minutes
in which to walk to the river and back;
by then numb to it all,
I can see it like a photo,
feel nothing.

I don’t know if I can
do this anymore.