First Cut
I trundled its petrol-perfumed rusty body out of the shed,
left the smells of must and cobwebs, rolled out onto the spring lawn.
The first cut of the year.
I took a deep breath, reached down, grasped the plastic handle, pulled.
At first there was the expected resistance of piston moving,
then, like a dream step, nothing.
Now it stands sentinel to a forgotten sward,
surrounded by a meadow of knee-high yellow buttercups
and purple cuckoo flowers.
Announcement
Her faced glowed when she told us,
I hugged her first, awkwardly, breast to breast,
then him, standing on my tip-toes
arms around his solid shoulders.
I hadn’t expected the jolt of desire.
At the ceremony, like many before me,
the tears trickled down my cheeks.
So this is why the mother of the bride cries.
I had always supposed it was to do with loss,
But had not understood what kind.
Out Late
I listen for the familiar thunk
of the front door closing.
Wait for the minor seismographic twitches
that signify the homecoming.
I pretend I’m not waiting,
am engrossed in a fascinating book
about a lesser-known African tribe,
but have read the same sentence fifty times.
My mind is not on the intricacies of bead-work
but is full of vivid images of car-crashes,
abductions, buildings inexplicably exploding,
how I will be called to the morgue.
Just as I reach for the phone
to call the police, fire brigade, coast-guard,
the door slams. I cross myself.
‘Nice evening?’ ‘Alright’
‘Glad you’re home safely.’ ‘Whatever.’
Running
Low sun patchworks through glowing leaves,
webs and filaments play across the path
wrap my arms and legs like a lover’s breath.
Heart pounding a syncopated rhythm
with my feet on the path, the stones, the earth.
Damp sweat on skin returns the sun’s heat,
head empty, free of thought, I only know
the continuous movement of light and shade.
Lake Locke
Ripples like concentric silver quilting
on deep olive silk
interfere to make distorted diamonds,
centre on two wet heads – blonde and brown.
The rest of the lake is mirror-still,
trees on the opposite bank
double-trunked and canopied.
A deep-tanned hand
reaches out of the water
and waves.
I think of mermaids.
Lexington
I could not find my idyllic childhood
here in this place that claims its name
and has usurped its place on the map.
They have kept the Green,
the statue of the Minuteman
but my home was not this
conservatory covered cream pastiche.
Mine had white clapperboard,
Green shutters, a smile.
My school is dilapidated and sad
not upmarket condominiums.
I sneak into the gardens,
put my hand on the brick
where we played snakey-snakey.
The heat and the humidity
are just the same,
and make me glad
for the first time
that now I live
in the cool wet rain of Wales.
Sleepy in Splott
Hands sweating, slipping against plastic,
bump chaffing and weighing me down,
head bursting with heat and nappy-brain.
The wheels tik-tch tik-tch across cracks
of exhaust-dusty dog-shit pavements.
I cannot see her face, only the top of her head,
a tangled mat of wispy brown
and her hands clutching an empty bag
stained red with cherry juice.
As we pass doors and windows,
a slide-show of other people’s troubles,
her fingers relax and crumpled paper
slips down between knee-grazed legs.
Asleep. But she will wake
just as I lie on the sofa
and close my eyes.
We travel in the lullaby sway
accompanied by tones
of Nokia and tinny Apple,
and one-ended conversations.
The green silk of Wiltshire
glides past unnoticed
by readers of Management Today
tappers of laptops
fillers of forms.
Only I gaze outwards
to see the day ending
with a glow of ghostly hawthorn.
A Small Spec of Hope
I am like that woman
shawl-clad against the harsh wind,
standing on the shoreline
above shear-rocked cliff
waiting for a small spec
of hope
to appear above the grey waters
of the horizon.
Day in day out
time passes as slowly
as the erosion of the stone
that is my heart.
The gulls circle, taunt me.
‘He will never come’ they cry.
I cover my ears with frozen hands,
tears dry salty on my cheek.
And when nothing appears,
no glimmer pierces the darkness,
you never come,
I will know
that the world is indeed flat
and there is only bitter salt.
Nestled at the bottom of the drawer
curled mouse-like in the corner
I found his old black sock,
darned at heel and toe.
As I lifted it out I remembered
our damp Adamsdown flat,
mildew creeping up skirting corners,
peeling grey wallpaper.
Huddling by the choking gas fire.
A wooden mushroom, polished
along its stem, scarred on top,
a long-ago gift
from my great grandmother,
pushed up inside the sock.
Unmatched strands of wool
threaded through the thick needle
creating warp and weft
to cover the worn holes.
Now time-poor and debt-rich
I discard old socks
never try to mend
holes caused by wear and tear.
The Girl’s Prayer
Our Father who
smiles at me today
as I pose in front of his Kodak
on crocus-filled snow-watered lawn
wearing my white dress.
Shear belled sleeves
dotted with fluffed velour,
that my mother made
on her treadle singer.
Our Father
gave me a golden cross
nestled in a pale blue box
to mark the occasion
of my first tasting of
the dry white flesh.
I wriggle my constricted toes
inside white patents
grin back to please him
but am watching
the light shifting
through the trees
and longing for my
khaki shorts and bare feet
and the deep red penknife
my hook-nosed grandfather gave me.
Ten blades
to carve my name on trees
to cut bugs in half
to engrave my own flesh.
Prom
Stroking the nap of burgundy velvet
I search out my daughter
amongst the rows of tulle and rayon.
You would look lovely in this Sweetheart.
The dress hangs like a caress
over breast and curve of thigh,
smooth unblemished skin glowing
under pale florescent lights.
I catch sight of myself,
mother of the party girl
lumped in fleece and jeans.
Her reflected eyes meet mine,
I try and smile
but only manage a grimace.
The first time we have cake, a candle,
invite all our own friends,
unwrap presents on her behalf,
drink champagne.
Then gatherings in the garden, the village hall.
Pass the parcel, rigged so every child wins a prize.
We try and avert the inevitable tears.
The anticipation so great no party
could ever live up to it.
We serve chocolate, rice crispie cakes,
unlikely coloured jelly. Give the guests
bright printed bags containing
plastic tat and more chocolate.
Today there are faces I have never seen,
deep voices and acned cheeks,
gangling limbs carrying sleeping bags
cram sardine-like into her room.
I provide pizza and pungent cheese
that echoes the smell seeping out
under her locked door.
I stand my ground and refuse to buy
even one Bacardi Breezer,
but wonder if I should have served
a plate of condoms.
