Page 27 - Community Living Magazine 34-2
P. 27
arts: poetry
Picnics in the Rain
When the sun is out, our conversations
shine brighter.
Autumn creeping close, we climb Cornish
cliffs,
our limbs hard-worked, lungs sea-air tired,
our last gasps before the seasons shift.
Virtual discos, my song grows wild,
yet the canal’s edge grips tightly.
For beneath black clouds
Lull my breath labours
I descend hillsides and quietly. At picnic tables, they open umbrellas,
emerge from woodlands the people who gather to the beat of
before the August sky burns blue, In chill my drum,
the air becomes woollen damp. air, though, pensioners, toddlers, addicts and couples
my drum speaks, long wed,
My sister’s chickens cluck my muffled taps edging beneath the hush of the willow, they hear
on their warm clutches, towards a far heavier beat. my life thrum.
as I fetch their blue eggs
from behind.
One Hundred and Two Days Away
When the day moults to dusk, The grass colour-sapped and head-height, Pete, a walking scarecrow,
the sheep bleat hiding trailing hawthorn and broken glass. moustache and beard dyed green for
for their evening feed the NHS.
before curling quietly in the hay. I’m stiff-limbed from strimming
Hints of autumn spike the air – and raking, The eye sting of onion and
the slaughterhouse still a month away. my hair’s untrimmed. runner-bean
chutney,
Picking red currants with the bitter-sweet
The Lockdown friends, smell of loganberry jam.
Bins of tissues, our laughter reaching
every cough, sneeze and tear. across the spade- Sterilised jars to stock the pantry
Empty packets, lengths between us. before the return of wintry days.
chocolate buttons, lemon drizzle, custard
creams.
The Right Time Still, I rose early,
Oh, for lungfuls of air, Time to move, fried bacon and eggs on Mondays
allotment fresh. I told them. though I couldn’t work at the allotment.
Oh, to sow It was time, Dad agreed. Still I spooned porridge with golden syrup,
Swiss chard and hug my friends. though I couldn’t take the 500 bus to
Months to find a social worker; years to work.
But the gatekeeper find a flat.
butterflies Full of lads, it was, Alone,
have flit from the brambles and a waterlogged cellar. I could hear the whistle of tits and robins,
to my belly. Rising spores that clogged my neighbour practising his saxophone,
my lungs. the scrape of their chairs at mealtimes,
I only let certain people get close, the hum of their talk.
But how will I endure isolation Finally, I moved to a house by the canal.
all summer long? Seven years, I’ve lived here. I texted my parents.
Own front door, own back door, I think it’s time, Mum told me.
own rocking chair and cushions, Time to return.
own unicorn handwarmer and unicorn
toys.
In March, I turned over the soil,
planted daffodils and fuchsia.
I was looking out the window
when my boss called. We’re closing
the office,
she told me. How long, I don’t know.
Weeks I spent, alone: No support staff, no
friends.
www.cl-initiatives.co.uk Community Living Vol 34 No 2 | Winter 2021 27
