WENDY WEBB

 

Perspectives On Rochester And Jane

 

Taut strings of my instrument

scraped out of tune,

in whimpering defeat at gardening

for the limp-worthy wreck of my days.

Pausing – life membership flash – at the entrance,

I homed unwieldy bow

(enhancing a latter-day Elvis, dancing)

in the back of a disabled buggy - flesh for hire –

to reach those parts: simply imagined dreams

(or pints of Guinness).

Cruising perimeter of paradise, landscapes

fell back before eyes (sweeping

for human obstacles, or rocks),

cloud-ridden blue skies beckoned early,

storming to late-falling July.

Unidentified butterflies flit in and out

of parameters of praise: a tree here/a folly there,

a ruined Gothic-windowed church – apparently a fallen tree.

The wood enveloped, leaves twirled down,

hearing aids – praise be – raised whipping wind.

Scent of new-mown hay, bewildered sheep;

one helicopter buzzing to the rigs.

The view to die for: house and serpent lake glistered

like blue dragonflies along the path.

Key out of ignition, retrieved stick, limped away

from little heaven, brain-fog exhausted.

My partner, jogging beside the 3-mile track,

full of lively energy for a bike ride.

 

Summer Solstice Set In Stone

 

Everybody loves burning June,

not Joan,

the flaming glory of a country garden.

No-one votes for torrential rain,

nor reining in the dog, nor Charles.

Vote for thick mist, moistened skin,

drizzling.

The sky is sapphire blue beneath a shop window display,

glowing bright and sparkling with visible stars.

Choose one; choose that moment;

kiss the stone.

Everybody loves the Summer’s gentle shower,

a glorious rose-thrilled bower’s perfection,

The drizzle of memories beneath one harsh, named memorial.

 

Whispering Harold, Cackling Geese 

 

In Nottingham, I walked miles

around the corridors and floors of the QMC;

in search of my father, though I last saw him

in the warden-aided complex, puffing

on a ciggie; downing a tot of White Horse;

telling tales of Geese, rumbling with his combo

along Gregory Boulevard, for a soap box parking space

just a tram away. No trams then.

His relative met a handsome man in uniform,

vanished up to Yorkshire before we could say Goose Fair.

Left her Mam back home, in the Victorian house

(outside toilet/bottom of garden).

My Dad never told me (until the Care Home),

that Auntie (my Great), never saw her man

(except when the Fair arrived in town).

So daughter (adopted), emigrated to Huddersfield;

she had kids (plenty), while he kept whippets

(for racing). Never realised (before that iconic statue),

my well-known (black and white) PM was there…

Harold.

She shared out a Fray Bentos between them all:

5 kids, 2 parents; bet they didn’t get any meat!

My Dad (last seen, where?), taught me to cook:

one tin of Irish Stew, shared between… (2 of us).

He got all the meat!

So when I say, I last saw my Mam, and she was

gravely silent. You would know, if you knew her,

that the stiff image was fractured

by moments of breathing in and breathing out;

but not her, oh, no.

Absolutely. She had never been silent; before.

So she never told me – how could she –

for she was never home.

Never at Goose Fair. Never in Huddersfield.

I was in York, so many times. Quite up the wall, me duck.

Up and down, along and through, the full Monty.

I could say, the full William, except, who imagines

doves/olives/bodies floating after midnight?

I had a walk-on part in Calendar Girls (stage right,

no lines); yet my Dad never told me his final curtain call

(aged 92) would float the Trent, the Soar, the sea off

Boston Stump; and 199 steps at Whitby.

Oh, no, too many Yerk bells before midnight:

returning from the pub to the campsite…

don’t ask Mary Shelley.

 

Or my Mam; I will tell you, simply, of the Whispering Gallery

in St Paul’s.

 

WENDY WEBB

 

WENDY WEBB, from the North Midlands, UK, prolific poet, experimenting with many modern and traditional forms and reading historic poets extensively. She ran a small press poetry magazine; won some awards; and is recently published with Reach, Sarasvati, Quantum Leap, Crystal, Seventh Quarry, The Journal, Frogmore Papers and online through Wildfire Words, Littoral Magazine, Lothlorien, Atlantean, Poetry Wivenhoe and Autumn Voices. OYO Poetry (wildfire-words.com)