Despite the hosing,
stems still cling to their cobwebs.
Strands draped between limbs,
threads quivering in a threat to untangle.
Roses grow thirsty again in a moment,
stripped out of their petals
heat caught up on their thorns.
A lessening, in want of more.
The Rosebush outside my kitchen window.
At the start of this year I was planning on which poetry events I wanted to go to in order to publicise my new collection ‘It’s All In The Blood‘. I managed a few local ones, and had a slot booked to perform at a Ludlow poetry night, right at the beginning of March. Then 2020 hit its stride in the UK.
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Tescos ran out of loo rolls and soapboxes.
Stay-at-home politicians with keyboards and opinions
screeching their how-to, quick-fix slogans.
Have you not been told?
Fake it till you make it means everyone’s an expert.
No one wants to say,
we’re all just fucking lost.
I’ll just slink back off to my grump little hobbit hole. Rant over in just forty-four words.
Syrup thick the evening slides in,
through an open window,
past clinking blinds left low.
Settled in the heat of floorboards,
today edges towards tonight
uncertain of any other name.
Could be Sunday for all its softness,
its lifted underbelly showing
to a glow on the horizon.
Even the birds seem distant,
their swooping songs drifting
deeper into the quietness.
In other poetry news, guess who finally had time to work out kindle publishing! ‘It’s All In The Blood’ can now be purchased on kindle through the amazon store. Feeling more than a little smug with myself I must say.
Carol J Forrester 
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