Thursday, 28 December 2017

A poem by Marilyn Hammick

Tricks of sight

Today her mug of tea fills from the bottom up,
she notices the unopened tea bag packet
beside the pot from her Mother’s dresser
without the crack from when it fell from her hands.

She adds this to the list: head-high wheat after
the harvester had drummed the air for days,
a trap set with a blackberry hours after she’d lifted
the wire from across the mouse, the blue tit’s nest
from which five young had fledged last week
where yesterday she counted six eggs.

She re-reads her notes about the hotel where
the bedroom key turned inwards to unlock,
there was one upside down fork per place setting
and each morning tomorrow’s newspapers
were on the hall table. There she’d watched
for milk in lumps, sugar in a jug, waited
for square scones but none had appeared.

She wonders should she show her list to someone?
Are there enough details? Who might want to know
that her life has become like the lines she drew
with disappearing ink from the Magic Box
in her red Christmas stocking.

Marilyn Hammick writes (and reads) while travelling, during still moments at home in England and France, recalling a childhood in New Zealand and years living in Iran. Other times she can be found stitching, walking or on her yoga mat.

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