Back To The Start… #DVersePoets

So it started with a broken laptop. Or maybe it started with your brother, pointing you towards a target, that wasn’t me by any means, but I was somewhere on the other side of it.

Or maybe it started with an offer made to my Grandfather, which he passed onto my mother and her new husband. Or maybe it started with a newspaper ad, Welshmen need not apply. Or maybe it started in Ireland, with a broken engagement and a ferry ticket.

Or maybe we are so far from the start there is no point loosing myself on the path back to it.

The sun rose again,

and the weather changed its tune

but that’s not the start.

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What Is Left Undone Must Be Carried On Or Forgotten #DVersePoets #Prosery

The house bursting and yet empty.

This is a bareness of harvest or pestilence. 

Tilly put the book down when her Aunt asked what she was reading.

She made an excuse and escaped through the kitchen. Hurried along the pockmarked lane.

The keys were cold in her palm, which was odd, seeing as they had been hung by the Aga.

When she climbed the gate she heard him muttering about townies always f’ing over good gates by not climbing over hinge end.

The tractor won’t start at first, takes a little coaxing.

Great Old Lady, done more than her fair share of things and would carry on longer than he would no doubt.

She eased it into gear and checked the harrow out of the back window.

He’d liked things finished, seen through to the end.

Today was as good a day as any.

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Metaphorically Speaking – #DVersePoets

You with your oak bark hands

planted on the bank

just before the hill drop

to what is now town.

 

I could see worlds

still turning in your memory,

as if the clock stopped

in a hundred different places.

 

I even recognise a few

of the people caught here

in this last place of green

before the concrete and brick.

 

It is a cruelty to take you

from this bank above town.

It is crueller still to take all this

away.

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My mother thinks I should try to write some less heavy poems, and I have been trying, but they all seem to twist into the shadows.

From Her Side Of Things #DVersePoets #MondayHaibun

Someone comments that she’d never really worked. Not a proper job. Not a nine-to-five, sit down at a desk, shuffle the papers, count the numbers, find the words sort of job. She just ‘helped’ her parents in their shop, then ‘helped’ her husband.

At Christmas my mother, her daughter, takes the carving knife. Skills become ingrained when you park a pram in the backroom of a butcher’s. They get passed down on generation to the next. Not always perfect, but present like the bark and callous of their hands when they take mine. Evidence of everything they’ve given.

She says she never really worked a proper job, not a nine-to-five, like I have. Passes me the cutter for scones that won’t be as good as her mother’s, because she hasn’t got the knack like she had. She was only ever ‘helping’ not working, not like her daughter does, not like I do. She was only ever there in the background.

Autumn is not Spring,

but beauty still grows in her

and there is worth there.

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Finding My Mother’s Amateur Jockey Licence #WeekendWritingPrompt

She put it to the back of a wardrobe,

in a bag of mismatched things,

none of any use these days

but none the sort you throw away.

The sort you keep until they’re found

by curious small hands cooped up

by the rain on window panes.

Discovering you before them.

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