Monday, 4 November 2013

A poem by Louise Crossley



Wet Woollens
After Denis Jonson - Heat

Lean. Un-fleshed. Pancake thin. 
Not wide-hipped and full-breasted
With fat to spare for Mardi Gras.

Soup clasped tightly
Willing heat to marrow chilled
Battling rain and snow.

Slick twigs blackly drip a back beat,
Match on sandpaper riff,
Snowdrops solo.

Damp dogs, Groundhogs,
Lambs in wet woollens,
Dancing to Pink Floyd’s ‘Animals’.

In grey fleece or waxed jacket,
Relieved with only scarlet slash kisses.
Windows fastened tight.

February:

Do you really have to bring love into it?



Professionally qualified to use a clipboard, Louise Crossley lives in the Cotswolds where she spends her time drinking tea, singing and keeping bantams.  She has served dinner to a Monkee, had breakfast with an Orang Utan and travelled across Bristol on a bus with an armadillo.   But not all at the same time.  After a 25 year break, she came back to writing poetry a year ago – and this time, it’s serious.  

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