Net Curtains

NET CURTAINS

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

Clearing the space for
You to fill with washing
And tales of how things
Are with you.

The nets are in my arms,
Your car 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.

The Rhythm of Wood

My poem The Rhythm of Wood published here in a recent publication of the Bray Arts Journal.

POTATOES

POTATOES

I can smell the sweet potato peel
Upon my skin – and I visualise walking
Amongst the summer rows.

I pick over the box of earthy potatoes.
When I pull one that is perfect
I turn it in my hand like a gold nugget –
Buried in my memory – a charm.

I peel back happiness from the soil,
Memories drop into a watery bowl;
The day we planted them – sowing
Love which had lain on the edges.

Uncertain, I nearly threw love out
With un-seeded tubers; to decay in hedges.
Instead I wrapped them and stored them
In a cold shed – for spring planting;

I can already see your face shining pride
At flowering drills; you stand with a wide-stance;
The posture of the accomplished soul – your eyes,
Stare lovingly at each planted offering.


Published in my poetry collection ‘The Last Fire’ 2015 (Lapwing Publications).

WEBS

WEBS

Hidden truths
Glossed over, unread
Being held together
By superficial thread.

Spiders weave fresh silk
Above the unprepared
Weakened –
Often unheard.

The dimming eyes
Of youth, or the withered
Hands of the old – their stories
Too often untold.

Giving up the fight,
Among poverty and strife;
Trapped, by political agendas
And newspaper lies;

Weaving webs until they die…

Helen Harrison

SEEDS

           SEEDS

               1

On a Sunday in mid-summer
Right at the edge of the park
You come to me;

Talking future plans,
Shining eyes,
And a heart that dared.
We saw ourselves

Buying a car to travel
Down to the coast
Whenever we took the urge

All planned out under the elm
Of eager spreading roots.
Many seeds scattered

Ideas with wings on the breeze
Hope floating all the way
Towards the sea along winding
Open-windowed roads.

             
             2

Smashed in spring - the last                             
Season you inhaled;
Lying singing on the back seat.

The front driver’s side was saved,
Letting me drive
To dreams that died.

Dreams have a way
Of coming at you by the front
And leaving by the back door.

I pass it now, the car
In the scrap yard
At the edge of the town
It’s only half now.

PASSING SUNSETS

PASSING SUNSETS

Evening, and there is nothing
To temp me indoors.

Warmed from a day spent in the sun;
I spin it on my fingertips,
Pass it, to my team-
Mates.

Scoring goals
Win rolls of respect. Talents
Swaying to the chants; that
Tribal-like victory dance.

Ball of mesmerising fire -
Football skills that inspire. Cool
Moves; dipping, diving,
Thriving, in the company,

Until friends slip away,
As they are called in -
One by one.

Alone, with a crimson sky;
The breath I take is sharp
Like loneliness,

As the night turns - flat.


A memory from my childhood published by poethead in 2015

https://poethead.wordpress.com/2015/08/29/the-last-fire-and-other-poems-by-helen-harrison/
https://poethead.wordpress.com/2015/08/29/the-last-fire-and-other-poems-by-helen-harrison/

KILLRUDDERY

KILLRUDDERY

Beneath the elders
Where bumble bees
Lose themselves
In flowering thyme;

I lie down in dew-soaked ease.

And dog-rose is the scent
That makes my spirits rise
In the kingdom of the low –
Flying bird.

I take comfort on the mossy soil;
 
Last years leaves sweet;
Damp In the wing-tipped breeze,
To ease my mind and soothe
My brow;

In dappled light my speckled thoughts take flight…

And the worm-seeking thrushes
Make a rustling sound
Where life goes on
Underground –

Beneath the earthy mound.