Back Home Mumbles greets, with pop-to-shop chatter, the ping of welcome, the smell of new, Welsh crafted gifts and the slow-down of browse.Home is in the accent, in the dragon on...
My hands are imagining you, the cool pale, your shoulders, like hawk wing, I sculpt,
The aunts never shaved their legs. They rolled up their trousers and ran into the sea.
When you wake with petals strewn at your inner imaginings, you try to live up to the sweet start,
It's a mystery, how the mind leaps from primitive sound to intricate, webbed sentence,
This moss is her island, its dewy green . . .
When the bough breaks and my oak tree heart is joined by an echo,
Burgundy-earth patches on cream, soft as calla lily.
The maple leaf stops them. Its veiny palm invites examination, as peach and pale green cross shades. Autumn does this to maple leaves; scorns their attempts to cling onto their tree of birth, strikes them down, flattens their flame. And then, somebody finds the leaf, finds charm in its crown-like edges, its slight resemblance to thorns.
A solitary heron, silver-grey, his stature great, resides within the river village, old man hunched and scouring.
Tricoloured pebbles, the sand stepping-stones of a shuffling huddle, or shifting land - a clinking crowd at ground.
She assumes her position at the sink, everything greasy from the day's befores. She scrubs at silver insides; the eternal circle from clean to unclean. The water pounds in and she thinks of the river; a rat's tail - just the tail, moving through rushes.
To Ahenny where slate spills from the land like prehistoric teeth.I bite back, snap with my new camera, angled for scenic views, fail to capture that dead outreach,
The crowd surge forward. They all wear blue. Despite the uniformity, I pick out faces. Each expression is unique. I focus on a young man – his brown eyes are round and expectant. His childish complexion gives him a glow. I don't want to see him dashed.
Dead Nettle, the words have a rattle. Death should not belong to soft lilac, or even the green, wing-like leaves that dress you, coquettish weed.
The smoke is oppressive, dangerous. Cassandra watches it curl around the armchair and already she can imagine its source – a long cigarette, dangling from the pursed lips of a grey-faced man. Every wrinkle is part of a complex pattern. She has traced paths through that face, has seen it close to her own, close enough to the feel the cool flame of his breath.
I've been working on some poetry, lately. I know this isn't a startling revelation, but I'm quite pleased with how these particular poems are shaping up. One was inspired by the memory of my first scan in pregnancy. I was struck by the sonographer's words 'everything you see on the screen is bone . . .' and this led me to my opening line: 'When they tell you, your baby is bone.'
TreeI take down the tree, unwreathe its arms of tinsel and bauble. Now it is pure and green and dark, a figure without cover.
The ShoreA shot of sea spills its gut, deep music.
As a starfish, I am pointy, shiny and spirited, with a zest for water. The tank allows me to see out into the world without taking part. I can float and watch and wait. The only problem occurs when a handler introduces me to a child.