I poured scalding water
and took the washing upstairs
then stood for a moment
looking out of the bedroom window.
A boy runs across the grass.
Outside the opposite house a woman sits in a car
smoking a cigarettes with the driver’s side window half open.
A woman pushes a child’s chair, talking on a mobile.
Next door a crisp packet blows across a daisy-speckled lawn.
On the stairs I linger,
tracing a finger across paintings.
This canal scene brings my sister to mind.
I bought it for her but kept it, and think of her more often because of it
in the way a photograph becomes invisible.
One beach scene reminds me of Borth, another of Devon
and a series of lithographs of the time
I was a professional artist.
At the bottom of the stairs I compose a poem,
but my voice falters when I video the scene
and I forget the pretty phrases
that flowed so well in my head.
And in the kitchen
my tea has steeped too long.
and took the washing upstairs
then stood for a moment
looking out of the bedroom window.
A boy runs across the grass.
Outside the opposite house a woman sits in a car
smoking a cigarettes with the driver’s side window half open.
A woman pushes a child’s chair, talking on a mobile.
Next door a crisp packet blows across a daisy-speckled lawn.
On the stairs I linger,
tracing a finger across paintings.
This canal scene brings my sister to mind.
I bought it for her but kept it, and think of her more often because of it
in the way a photograph becomes invisible.
One beach scene reminds me of Borth, another of Devon
and a series of lithographs of the time
I was a professional artist.
At the bottom of the stairs I compose a poem,
but my voice falters when I video the scene
and I forget the pretty phrases
that flowed so well in my head.
And in the kitchen
my tea has steeped too long.
9 comments:
You know something? That was poignant and beautiful; loveliest thing I've read of yours in awhile. :-) xx
Thank you :)
Lovely and yes, poignant and bitter like over steeped tea.
Do you know how powerful this poem is?
It sucked me in and I found myself with closed eyes thinking I was there - on the stairs - looking out the window - semi-dreaming state.
I threw the tea out and made another cup. Then I took my parasol and book of poetry and went into the garden and sat on a scrolly bench.
Thank you Aims. It does seem to have provoked some positive reactions.
This is quite powerful, Rachel. A complex, really, a microcosm of a morning, yours, and the sort-of-intrusion of the world into it because you allowed it. Thank you. Beautifully done, and the photograph is a wonderful accompaniment.
Thanks Stephanie. I'm quite pleased with this, though the bowl of tea was too strong ;)
Beautiful poem.
(I over-steep my tea more often than I would like.)
Thanks Dorla.
Alas, me too!
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