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Jackie Evans
I've been a member of the workshop for some years, and have recently been experimenting with poetry after several years of travel writing.
Last Morning
At dawn the rain began
Fingertips on palms
Now a deluge, grass lurid green
I hover, helicopter down on our house,
Condensed to
The only house in Wales.
Our house shifts on its moorings
The anchor of its old life coaxed away.
Three days ago the plunder began;
Each room stripped, for DSS the chest of drawers with sixties gilt knobs,
Where sisters crammed their make-up, Miners frosty blue.
Out with the parents' bed, `You'll get nothing for that, love.'
We air memories, discard or hoard again;
Family photos, our early days, frozen in post war closeness
While shadows grope across the summer garden.
And holding history, my dad's army box, Burma star, proud entry on the Victory
parade.
Removals - part of everyday for these men;
The shifting of memories
Merely the fitting of objects through gaps
The piano, where they lean, having a fag, discuss football and Diana's death
Had cold yellowing keys where small hands bridged the octaves, struggling.
The house is growing naked as it was, for the family,
Sheds its skin
Awaits a new one.
Already ghosts, we wander now.
No seats, no chair, no place to settle
But one, for me to sit and feed the baby
While the air numbs with our unvoiced feelings
And we circle like cats, bristle and lash out
Words spark like flint
He gurgles, coos, shits as normal
He smiles, stares and grasps at things beyond.
Last morning,
The house submerged now, pours, weeps from every orifice,
Drainpipes gush, the windows stream
Tears fall on my son's cheek
He looks up, sucks, and watches me with his wise old eyes.
Each lingers, not wanting to be last to turn the key.
But only one thing is left
The last, the newest,
He sits on his car seat, rocks,
Awaits the next journey.
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