Agnes Brown.
A 21st Century Tale of Woe.
Agnes Brown looked back on the pages of her
Long and well-thumbed life. It was the same old
Story and as she neared the end she realized that
Any wands that may have been waved had drooped
And failed. Her Fairy Godmother must have had
An accident because she never arrived, although
Many years were passed in waiting. The prince who
Once found Agnes was not charming and he had left
Well before midnight. She always had two shoes that
Rubbed her heels. Serviceable brogues. Glass slippers
Were not Agnes’s style. She had made many wishes
But none had come true, though someone had cast
A spell at some point for she was slowly transmuted
Into an old crone. Her wishing well ran dry very early and
Her broom had done nothing more than sweep.
No helpful elves ever appeared at stroke of midnight
To ease her burdens. She never saw a Unicorn or a
Golden egg. When she bought pumpkin it was just for
Soup and her beanstalks produced only beans. As she
Embraced the cruel trappings of age and loneliness,
Agnes Brown could tell you, without hesitation that life
is not a fairy-tale.
Blue Latex.
Enter the drug squad. Quiet, stealthy.
Plain clothes and hand-cuffs.
Blue latex pulled tightly over flexing fingers.
Standing in a group. Talking soft as a breeze.
Men and women waiting. Outside a house
with drawn blinds and a look of closed eyes.
Early morning but not like on TV.
No door battering, yelling, pushing posse.
No screaming response. Half at the front.
Half at the back. Door opens upon a silent shuffle.
A sleepy half-struggle ensues.
Bare chest and gritty eyes
A hand with splayed fingers rests upon
a close-cropped head.
Guides him into the back of the car.
A slow drive off. Blinds are raised.
The morning sun enters on the heels of the police.
Glimpses of lifted articles flash like items at an auction.
Privacy is forfeit .The search is in full spate.
In the distance, the car continues its grumbling progress
into the soft summer day.
The door has closed behind them
before the rest of the street is awake.
(shortlisted for The Poetry Society of Cheltenham comp.09)
Death In a Flood.
The ghost in the willow hovered
upon its bending branch.
Peering at its physical self.
At that cold blue body that
rolled limply away into the rising river.
The body had clung for hours.
Frozen fingers grasping hard in
deathly drunken terror.
The voice had screamed in panic.
howling for rescue that did not come.
The ghost in the willow hung on.
Bemusedly trying to grasp what
had sent it flying from its corporeal self.
Its mind was muddied. A sickly haze
of alcohol still clung to its ethereal being.
Memories of arrogant assertions
crept back like cringing dogs.
The body had been warned.
Had chosen not to listen.
Could not even swim and had wrapped
its arms around the Willow,
as water inexorably rose.
It had held and held
as strength drained away
Exhaustion and cold had done the rest.
The ghost in the willow knew it would
always cling to the rough bark and
rue the bodies recklessness forever.
Disabled Woman Swimming.
She moves with aching slowness
From the changing-room door.
Feet tender upon the textured tiles.
She reaches the pool’s edge.
She does not dive. Can’t throw herself in,
Or prayer- point her hands and cleave
The water like a blade.
She does not even jump and strike
The surface like a barrel. She steps
Slowly down the ladder. Backwards.
Her twisted fingers tightly clutch the cold
Steel rails. She shivers as water rises
Tickling her calves’ inch by slow inch.
Creeps higher still, until she stands waist deep.
Then she ducks. Feels the water sluice
Over her shoulders and head.
She pushes off the tiled wall with
Her scarred feet, takes a breath through
Damaged lungs, stretches the shoulder
That was repaired and she swims.
She is released from gravity and weight.
From aches and pains and enveloped in
The euphoria of buoyancy, regains the grace
And speed that is denied her in the dry world.
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