Willow

Photo by Sebastian Beck on Pexels.com
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

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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.

©EilidhGClark

I published Window Pain with FTP Magazine on 7th April 2017 – click here to see the original. This is one of my favourite poems to date.

Alone in a Council Flat

 

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Alone in a Council Flat

The Curtains twitch.
An ambulance passes. 
No siren. No need.
There’s a hush -
A breath 
Held harder than a hiccup
As silence swells
Into the four corners of o’clock.

Through the letterbox
A whiff of kippers;
Of soup and salty socks, sink
Like 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 space
Before the light-bulbs blink
And press the night like putty-
Into the lips of the garden

Behind the disinfected wheelie bin
And the whittled bird box
Tomorrow waits.
For news and for open blinds,
For fresh pheasant, hung dead
On a hook by the washing line, 
And footsteps – 
And an old man
Carrying a loaf of bread
In a crumpled up carrier bag.


The curtains twitch.

©EilidhGClark

This poem was published by Tell-Tale Magazine on 31st July 2017.