Poems
Resignation of a Mother
To Whom It May Concern,
I write to tell you that with much regret, I’m submitting my notice with immediate effect. You see this post is the toughest I’ve endured, For sick leave or holidays cannot be secured. So I gather you would like me to make clear, What in particular has brought me here? I think it prudent to start from the beginning, That way you’ll see the reasons underpinning my rationale, I hope you consider me trying, I’m not one for tears, tantrums and sighing. When first broached, I would never have guessed, The care of twin boys, surely I’d been blessed. Although I’d imagined a girl dainty and fair, Not two fidgety boys with curly blond hair! Barging in the bedroom, when I could have been naked, And rummaging in my private drawer, for nothing is sacred. I’ve consulted toddler guides to gain some decorum, And swapped tips at many a Parent’s forum. Have I learned anything? I can only conclude; No techniques work - for it depends on their mood. I’ve taken to hiding when eating dessert, Otherwise they will be coveting, large eyed; alert. And in such circumstances as the latter, It is impossible to make myself fatter, When the little ones despite being fed, Beg for my meal - I give in. Enough said. Then there’s the matter of sleep - it’s not guaranteed, To rest for rest’s sake, to them there’s no need. So they wake up early from their naps, And scare me by wriggling from car seat straps. I think this is the nub of the issue, Worrying, caring, the constant mopping with a tissue;
Their little button noses.
What to do for I cannot hand this in - surely it is bound for the waste-paper bin? This role is not easy but my quitting won’t befall, How could it? My sonny-boys, my joy and pride, my all.
A Mother.
Office lunch break
Thirty minutes:
Emerging from a cloistered world of bureaucracy and tilted blinds. Pixel focused eyes surrender to solar light while day trippers meander, ice creams dripping obliviously on August-crowded pavements. Headlong with entitled resolve to the lone bench at town’s edge. Silver capped jackdaws gape rudely at office-pallid legs adoring the sun, while high-heeled feet rest uneasy on earthen ground; freedom’s territory.
Thirty paltry minutes.
Sonnet for the White Boar
Carried horse-slung in fourteen eighty five, Dynasty over, battle scars displayed. Away chivalry, Plantagenet pride, White roses now crimson; England’s king slayed. Requiem sung, friars laid you to rest In a sober grave, a forgotten space. Slender bones amid soil and grit compressed, Greyfriars was tarmac, a parking place. York or Leicester; the courts decide your plight, I wonder what of this era you’d make? Was time passing a healer, royal knight? Or do the wounds of betrayal still ache? Good king, bad king. The public will debate, The White Boar returns: Centuries too late.
Bound
It was not the golden October moth that danced ahead, Harbinger to my melancholy return; Or the armchair imprinted with the shape of your restless slumber. It was not the photo on the bus pass, Your expression tight lipped as though reluctant to accept the free ride; Or the iron filing whiskers caught in your razor. As time passed I thought it might have been the gardening gloves, Formed as still finger-filled on the shelf when I came to tidy; Or your hoard of golf balls in the shed’s corner. No, I tell you these were poignant but expected; bearable. I was doing well until my encounter with a piece of string. I spotted it one breezy Tuesday as it whipped the gable wall incessantly. Tied without troubling me on the need to insulate a garden tap; Or on the matter of impending cold weather. Now as I look upon your complexity of knots, I see more than string. I see determination; The desire to make it better. Perhaps for a time your solution worked, I will never know. For now the tap drips tearfully, Bound with your string as I am to you, in memory of a purpose.