Polly Stretton
Candles and SplintersApples stacked on racks Father made; wooden, tough, splintery, like Mother. The cellar doors creak, a cast latch speaks with a clatter as the doors shut fast. My hands search for matches–forbidden matches– and candles–forbidden candles– a saucer to catch the wax. The scent of apples, gift-wrapped in old newspaper, blend with candle cologne. I breathe the clagging coal dust in the darkness of the cellar. A dozen steps down from the sliver of a frown, on the brow of a peevish mother, her ire aimed at me for climbing the ancient oak tree. ‘Not ladylike,’ she said, –raised her hand–I ran– ‘Come back!’ I’m caught in a soft candle glow. VolunteersToday’s the day,
today’s the day they die. In every line, carved anguish on fine-boned faces, in bowed heads, starved slump of shoulders, nooses around necks, the way city keys —clutched-- in hot hands held against hurting head, today’s the day. Today’s the day they die. Calais besieged, the envoys’ walk, sandals tied with string shuffling through dust, as grit cuts; rope pares skin. Death imminent, they stumble to the square as yet unaware, today, they’ll be saved by a claim, an omen, an infant yet to be born. Autumn EquinoxThe Welsh God, Mabon, celebrates
when day is equal to night. Days grow darker, nights grow longer the sun’s power dies away. Vermillion leaves yellow and fade to amber. Soak the leaves with paraffin, inscribe with runes -set them alight- Dusk burns with meadowsweet and myrrh. Heavy vines, hefted by marching men soft through town. The harvest moon illumines the harvesters’ way to plentiful bread and wine, carmine red. ‘Here’s to us and times a’plenty’. Apple cider cinnamon days, icy grey pale whey days to All Hallows’ plight eating soul cake through the night. November comes, gives way to spring, when young replenishes old, the moon will rise twice and more before… First Love ☊The piano is in need of tuning
so it can be played in key music is my first love rock opera symphony I love music sheets tucked inside the seat of piano stool beneath music soft music loud music beautiful uplifting and complete Dissonance: off key jangles discord—clang clang the music chaotic bitter sharp air disturbed—bang bang Black keys and white keys wait proud and still for the piano tuner’s lever (here he comes up the hill) He plays sotto voce presto forte staccato allegro adagio tosto tutti vivace tenerezza eco o o o o oh A tonic in tune once more affettuoso read the score pianissimo dolcissimo come play me piano implores Hallowe'en HarbingerOpen curtains to a corker
of ghost-mist, murky October looming, veil draped, dim and wet, grey robed, bone frail, cold sober. |
The JourneyRiding from far North they came
through snow and sleet and sheeting rain. Ice formed behind them, frosted, cracked red dragon scales, in parts, looked blacked. On wings sheer clipped, their fire breath quenched, onward, moving South, they went. Flying ahead of the sunset West: werewolves; sprites in fiery vests; pixies pointing ears to learn where coal black jackdaws crash and burn. There is no place to hide. Then from the sunrise in the East the faerie queen on bounding beast the size of which sees grown elves weep. They hear her voice so light (though deep) control the slavering ride. Inch by inch from the dry drought South carrying dead sheep in its mouth the Kraken, skin scabbed, wracked and ripped scouts for the havering hare who nips at the frail fingers of sylvan wamblers. not sorry yetfour-year-old legs pumping running away
ma shouts after me ‘come back’ sister wails ma is livid i pushed the bowl downstairs this is how she sees it it is my fault a tall ten-pint goldfish bowl three goldfish i run down the meadow behind our house it is hay-making time yellow grass scent and dust tickle my nose and make me sneeze sneeze stops me for long enough she catches me i have glanced behind in my run and seen her struggling with my little sister but ma is grim-faced and determined that i will be caught and punished it was an accident i tripped knocked into the bowl which bounced down each stair fish flying water arcing the finest mirrored droplets splash the sound of breaking glass tinkles downwards she comes out of the kitchen babe on hip and roars ‘nooooo’ i flee out the open door my legs pump i feel my heart i hear my breath coming jagged i smell the hay i sneeze she catches me she screams thrashes me and at each step thrashes me again all up the meadow back into the house she is crying hot angry tears me howling mortified indignant rebellious an accident i sob my jaw jutting i am but four-years-old not sorry yet ScorpioFunereal drapes and grey shadow
fingers; faded velvet hangs; single candle streaks the blackened room. The alcove portrait scowls –surveys the family– gathered, they eat cake. Boy puts crumbed hands to face; the portrait stares with wrathful eyes. Boy wishes for warmth away from the glare, the daggers of the portrait. No one else sees. Uncle picks up the folio below the portrait; opens it, lines mirror down the sides of his mouth. Matching eyes, identical scowl. The boy views the face he will become: same frown, same beetling brows, same shock of black hair. Same birthday. Samhain. Detective — NoirHardboiled, cynical,
the dick believes in love. His slinky girl —in sequins and seed pearls-- sees Hardboiled’s away with the fairies; the scent of aftershave is a dead giveaway. Fresh shirt; new jeans; shaved clean. She can tell by the smirk he’s got another skirt. Who is she? Slinky, glitter tarnished by what she thinks, becomes what he —has not detected-- suspicious. |
