Writing on the Wall

Hear Beverley read this poem (mp3)

As I grow old around the eyes
protect myself from wrinkles
you arrive.
Head grapefruit size, hazelnut shape,
tucked-chin a lovely sleepy face
that screws in moments
to an aging crone.
Luminous chameleon skin,
flame-soft skin, and lines
mature beyond eight hours old.

Wide expressive lips
pout-peace and bliss and pain,
a sudden blush of body strain
understanding guts and need,
you feed.

Perfect hands. Tiny fingers. Minute nails.
Impossible to grasp,
this fragile bundle can exist outside
her mother’s bellies mound.
And sound,
your sucking and that cry.
It catches almost hurts.
Demands  focus.
It’s known, even she wolves can’t resist that wail,
raise human offspring as their own.

I’m here,  great love made it so.
The call, from my first-born son and wife
this baby girl is our new life.

Hear Beverley read this poem (mp3)

Hear Beverley read this poem (mp3)

She’d shifted stones,
stirred debris, swished gravel
and searched countless streams
in Scotland, Canada, The States.
The rings they forged
with gold she dug,

from leggy youth,
beneath a shining sieve
she saw her pink feet grow.
Panning skills came with
learning to endure aching limbs,
hardship and biting bugs.
But always a thrill
to press her finger on wet glitter,
see the yellow dust crown the tip,
then drop it in the water-jar.

Time built her little pile
particle on shining  particle
into a sparkling storm,
a splendour Beowolf
nor the wealth of kings could steal.

Her wild gold.
Panned from rivers.
The collection of a seeking life.
Her precious booty
for the man she sifted out, settled on
and gave her binding signature.
Two rings to hold two hearts.

Hear Beverley read this poem (mp3)

Robin calls brighten the dull matt of a sunless day and at a woodpecker angle sparrows pick grit from loose mortar that bonds stones in the wall,

it is an uncharacteristic pose for them. Heavy snow-covering has made their usual hunting ground inaccessible.

No tyre indentations from traffic around the house this week, my car is almost hidden and playing at spooks in a slippery white canopy.

Three toed bird prints, animal tracks, graffiti  from the wild, I’ve been diligent with bird-feeding and changing their iced up water.

Today cloud is low, thick, making a bright haze that’s absorbed the road and hill, only one hedge-line is visible. With it a thaw has come, gutters gurgle and icicles drip pock-mark-tunnels into the pristine drifts that slope, at irregular intervels, a lacy skirt around the house.

It curtsies a contour in stillness to the garden, drive and fields.

From inside, the window-glare hurts, it highlights the squiggles that wash around inside my right eye, emphasizing the brown granular texture that appears  magnified on pale surfaces. It is improving, but the weathers dazzle reminds me I need to give it time to heal.

I’m nursing my brother too, he’s visiting and ill. His cough sounds devastating, racks his body. Good friends and family have rallied ’round with doctor trips and shopping.

I am so lucky, and appreciation for these acts of kindness, their footprints in the frozen snow are the most warming things of all.