NET CURTAINS

NET CURTAINS

I am pulling down the net curtains
in haste, the ones you hate.

I am clearing the space for
you to fill with washing
and tales of how things
are with you.

The nets are in my arms,
and your car is on
Daffodil Lane,

The smell of peat smoke,
roasted meat, wild flowers,
baked bread and now –
your perfume in my arms
In the bundle of nets I hold


(A poem from a few years ago when we nearly moved to a house with net curtains and our daughter was mortified, and I imagined living there and her coming home from college for the weekend)

MOURNING

MOURNING

I think, it was the winding lane that did it – the one
Lined with daffodils: Wordsworth would have approved.
I had my own poem set out – open like the cupped

Yellow offerings; perhaps I’d have added in: Sun-trapped
Stone steps - coming down from the white-washed loft;

And what the house held:
The bed-rails, the heavy wardrobe and ancient drawers,
The lace of the curtains, and the old dresser,
A range to help a kettle sing, and streams,

Of light across the lanolin floor – peeping
From wide window-sills, with hills outside.

Now, I have to content myself with the fact that - we have
A bigger vegetable patch here, than the little fenced one
At the back of the cottage we nearly had –
I knew the man who lived there once.

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MUM AND SPUDS

Mother's Day poem about my own mum....

 MUM AND SPUDS

How are you managing for heating oil?
Do you know that Mrs Mullen died?
I hope you like onions with your stuffing?
You said in your text that you’re on nights next.

Heaped on offerings of food,
Hot pans make mood for flavour.
Television. Loud repeated soaps,
Water hissing on stove. Potato
Peelings blocking sink - no time to think;

Can I help? I question her red face,
No it’s alright - clean the windows instead -
but listen; wait until after you’re fed.