There's a wicker chair
In a second-floor room,
Where she sits as still
As the space between the sky and the sill
In her time to just be.
She used to watch the time fly by,
Now it ebbs and flows
As her willow tree grows
In the frame of a big bay window,
In her time to just be.
Then one day in spring,
In her time to just be,
She saw wind tangle knots,
In her flat sheets and socks,
And her fingers - twisted and curled,
Looked like branches of willow.
When summer came,
With sun licked leaves,
And barbeque tastes
On the tail of the breeze,
She lingered still, calm and at ease,
In her time to just be.
Then summer expired,
In a long exhale,
And from twisted fingers a leaf fell,
Then autumn arrived, armed with a brush,
Painting the land with fire and blush,
But still she stayed,
As leaves fell, and the willow swayed,
In her time to tell.
Now let me tell,
That the land lay still,
With snow thick on her windowsill,
The wicker chair, an empty place,
The willow tree, an empty space,
A fallen branch, lay on the ground,
The snow fell without a sound.
A cold teacup with unread leaves
In a time a to just breath.
Window Pain Not a paper bag Or a terracotta mask Can erase this face, Or misplace The dug-out lines, The outlines, the valleys sketched Like map markings, marking my skin. Or the thin Unconventional smile, forced from A gully of pain That rises to the tip Of a pin like nerve
To my lip. Does this body deserve To mask these aging bones
With leather skin Smoothed out, Like putty on a window pane With pain.
Or will night, When dusk coughs The light from the sky – celebrate, and wait until the moon is a silver eyelash on a violet sheet and the self – erased.
The Curtains twitch.An ambulance passes. No siren. No need.There’s a hush -A breath Held harder than a hiccupAs silence swellsInto the four corners of o’clock.Through the letterboxA whiff of kippers;Of soup and salty socks, sinkLike a stain into embossed
Net curtains and settle. Settle.A beat -A tick of life – A wave from a crackling stereo;and the Corries pinch the spaceBefore the light-bulbs blinkAnd press the night like putty-Into the lips of the gardenBehind the disinfected wheelie bin
And the whittled bird boxTomorrow waits.For news and for open blinds,For fresh pheasant, hung dead
On a hook by the washing line,And footsteps – And an old manCarrying a loaf of bread
In a crumpled up carrier bag.The curtains twitch.
Eilidh G Clark 