More poems from my published pieces.

(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.




New Shoes. 1958.

May gently smoothed the sheet of cheap paper
against the table. Pressed the fold-lines
flat with the pads of her fingers and breathed the
antiseptic smell that ghosted from the brown envelope.
She gazed at the outline of the small foot drawn in
smudged pencil with the line broken in a few places.
It was more poignant than any photograph.

Her daughter’s name was scrawled in one corner
in a hand too adult and ferocious to be her child’s. The sketch
came unaccompanied by letter or salutation. She could imagine
her little girl fidgeting as her foot was firmly placed and the wriggling
of her white-socked toes. May had bought the new shoes.
Brown and sensible with a good thick sole.

She had judged the size, carefully placing a shoe
over the drawing then increasing up to allow for growth.
the parcel had been posted the day before and May had
haughtily ignored the postmistress’s curious comments.
Now she placed the sketch in the kitchen drawer.
It would lie there with the others until a new one arrived
next year.



Passing Through.



This small town oozes grimness.
With poverty written into
Every shabby shop-front.
Charity shops display rags in futility.
Grimy windows cataracted by neglect,
Peer out at dirty pavements
And watch the litter that scampers

Unimpeded along grey streets.
Opposite, stoop shouldered houses,
Carry the burden of existence.
Dispirited people move listlessly,
Held upright only by the force of hope.
They are empty. Soulless.
Ground fine by the mill of despair.