Thursday, 11 October 2018

A poem by Annest Gwilym

Mrs Parry

She lived in a net-curtained house
with anaemic pot plants and china figurines
of big-eyed animals and ladies in long dresses.
There was always the smell
of stale sponge cake and a scattering
of doilies, a brown flowered carpet,
drab furniture with crochet antimacassars.

She only spoke the island Welsh,
always with a twinkle in her eye.
We were no angels: girls that slipped
melting ice lollies through the dark mouths
of post boxes, stuck out our Black Jack tongues
at strangers, danced the can-can
in her bloomers and best chapel hat
rummaged from her bedroom
while she spoke to our mother.

In a hot summer that reverberated to the sound
of roller skates tearing up concrete
she took us in her shiny black Morris Minor,
speeding past farms and fields of potatoes,
to the candy floss paradise of Benllech
with its wide apron of sand and donkeys.
Me in my beloved yellow towelling hot pants,
while Seasons in the Sun played
from everyone’s open door.

Annest Gwilym is the editor of the webzine Nine Muses Poetry Her writing has been widely published both online and in print. Her first pamphlet of poetry - Surfacing - is available from Lapwing Poetry For a signed copy directly from the author go to:

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