A Certain Kind of Death (2018)
Previously published in Sentinel Literary Quarterly Jan – March 2019
She stands in awe of her predicament,
Tight bound and balanced on a precipice,
As hecklers crowd around
Like swords to cut her down.
Soft shoes wet now with effluent that runs,
No chance to hide her fear, the
Gutter tribe around her sneer,
There is the stink of disillusionment.
The precious seconds ticking by,
Each one counted by the scribe,
Until the hangman makes his move,
Feted and regaled a hero by the crowd.
She trembles as she feels the noose
He places round her neck.
Warm breath upon her cheek he speaks,
Soft now, she strains to hear but then no more
For mere distraction as the trapdoor swings.
She feels the drop, the dislocation of her neck,
As darkness moves to cover her,
But not before she hears the cheering of the mass.
Tight bound and balanced on a precipice,
As hecklers crowd around
Like swords to cut her down.
Soft shoes wet now with effluent that runs,
No chance to hide her fear, the
Gutter tribe around her sneer,
There is the stink of disillusionment.
The precious seconds ticking by,
Each one counted by the scribe,
Until the hangman makes his move,
Feted and regaled a hero by the crowd.
She trembles as she feels the noose
He places round her neck.
Warm breath upon her cheek he speaks,
Soft now, she strains to hear but then no more
For mere distraction as the trapdoor swings.
She feels the drop, the dislocation of her neck,
As darkness moves to cover her,
But not before she hears the cheering of the mass.
Emmonsails Heath in Winter by John Clare
I love to see the old heath’s withered brake
Mingle its crimpled leaves with furze and ling
While the old heron from the lonely lake
Starts slow and flaps his melancholy wing
And oddling crow in idle motions swing
On the half-rotten ash tree’s topmost twig
Beside whose trunk the gypsy makes his bed –
Up flies the bouncing woodcock from the brig
Where a black quagmire quakes beneath the tread;
The fieldfare chatters in the whistling thorn
And for the ‘ awe round fields and closen rove,
And coy bumbarrels twenty in a drove
Flit down the hedgerows in the frozen plain
And hang on little twigs and start again.
Mingle its crimpled leaves with furze and ling
While the old heron from the lonely lake
Starts slow and flaps his melancholy wing
And oddling crow in idle motions swing
On the half-rotten ash tree’s topmost twig
Beside whose trunk the gypsy makes his bed –
Up flies the bouncing woodcock from the brig
Where a black quagmire quakes beneath the tread;
The fieldfare chatters in the whistling thorn
And for the ‘ awe round fields and closen rove,
And coy bumbarrels twenty in a drove
Flit down the hedgerows in the frozen plain
And hang on little twigs and start again.
Working Girl |
I walked down the lane and my Mother stood there quietly
In the distance, watching – her pinafore flapping in the breeze.
She waited until she could clearly see my face
And then she began to walk towards me.
I picked up my pace and when she opened her arms
I ran, tear-blinded to her embrace.
Like a wet sheet in a gale I wrapped my arms around her,
Not wanting her to see how awful my day had been;
But she knew, she’d known even before
She walked out onto the lane.
She made some tea and toast and by bedtime
I felt ready to face whatever the next day would bring.
And of course everything was different on that second day;
No longer the new girl, now one of the team.
In the distance, watching – her pinafore flapping in the breeze.
She waited until she could clearly see my face
And then she began to walk towards me.
I picked up my pace and when she opened her arms
I ran, tear-blinded to her embrace.
Like a wet sheet in a gale I wrapped my arms around her,
Not wanting her to see how awful my day had been;
But she knew, she’d known even before
She walked out onto the lane.
She made some tea and toast and by bedtime
I felt ready to face whatever the next day would bring.
And of course everything was different on that second day;
No longer the new girl, now one of the team.
Yonder (written when aged 10)
Yonder lies the old grass patch
Where once I used to roam;
Where childish games and childish dreams
Were shared with all who came.
My friends and I had such good fun,
We were a jovial crowd;
But somehow things were not the same
When one or two had gone.
And now I come to gaze at it,
For I am now a man,
With adult hopes and adult fears,
Yet still I feel a pang –
Of longing, for those distant days,
When I was but a boy,
Playing on a patch of grass
Which now has almost gone.
Where once I used to roam;
Where childish games and childish dreams
Were shared with all who came.
My friends and I had such good fun,
We were a jovial crowd;
But somehow things were not the same
When one or two had gone.
And now I come to gaze at it,
For I am now a man,
With adult hopes and adult fears,
Yet still I feel a pang –
Of longing, for those distant days,
When I was but a boy,
Playing on a patch of grass
Which now has almost gone.
Rosemarket
The door in the corner of the room is locked;
Locked from the other side;
So who has they key? Does he?
Something wakes me in the night;
Footsteps walking on the wooden floor;
In here? In there? Impossible to tell.
Should I be calling out a warning?
My wooden thumb-lock door
Is stout, and reassures of any doubt;
The door in the corner of the room is locked;
Locked from the other side;
Or is it? Did anybody check?
Locked from the other side;
So who has they key? Does he?
Something wakes me in the night;
Footsteps walking on the wooden floor;
In here? In there? Impossible to tell.
Should I be calling out a warning?
My wooden thumb-lock door
Is stout, and reassures of any doubt;
The door in the corner of the room is locked;
Locked from the other side;
Or is it? Did anybody check?