I felt her fingertips against the cardboard flowers, She’d ruined it, just as she soiled that Sunday She’d stuck on the final leaves, filled in the last I’d missed school with the ‘flu’, so couldn’t finish it myself. That’s where I hid the card, the broken bitsĬrumbs like dried yolk stuffed in the Ludo box. Were kept, silverfish in its dusty corners. The slap of rope on asphalt, skipping songsĬoating the summer day. The snaking red anguish tangles her up in rage,īlood that no amount of spit-wet tissue can rub out. Her courage faltering before her labour’s done. The bright bursts of pain leave her vacant and bereft, There’s no joy left.įood is ash in her mouth, the world an empty cage. Her courage faltering before her labour’s done –ĭesperate to hear some news, yet not wanting to find The ivy winding up the fence twists through her mind.Įvery moment the vice of terror grips her more, She can’t remember quite what she was looking for. Her hope extinguished with the setting of the sun. Replaced by the slithering worm of impending fear – Her courage faltering before her labour’s done, She pauses on the path – blots her eyes with her sleeves – She feels the pale green sunlight through the hawthorn leaves –īut May’s evening blaze is darkened for her this year. She is currently nearing the end of a Masters degree in Creative Writing with the Open University, and is currently working on a novel inspired by The Tempest, while trying to process why the world appears to be falling apart. Yorkshirewoman Louise Wilford has had over 100 poems and short stories published and has won or been shortlisted for several competitions, most recently the £750 Arts Quarterly Prize and the MereFest Poetry Prize. Through the lazy cobwebs, through the sleepy moths,Īnd we will dance, my love – my love, we will danceĪnd then we will dance as the slow earth turns Then, we will step through the dandelion clocks, Is itchy as elf-fingers as I pass, when the shuffling hedgehogĬircles the lawn and the first drift of leavesĬrumbles beneath our shoes, when the mouse-eyedĮlderberries droop, black bubbles in the ripple of moonlight,Īnd the night’s grey dust dampens the rosehips When the brush of a dying ladybird on my forearm When the night creeps in like a timid guestĪs the air stiffens with the last chirps of the cricketsĪs the scent of autumn seeps like a charm into my veinsĪnd the still-warm twilight twists about my limbs When the wild copper sun streams into the sea, And then, when the sluggish earth winds down,
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