.
.
We’re so summer,
early, you and me,
the fuzzed triangle
lemoning the wall
where the shifted curtain
lets in unique light;
you hold my hand,
each thing is new,
will never repeat,
though we’ve made it
another illuminated June.
.
.
.
.
__________
©Marie Marshall
.
.
.
.
.
let-lie cinders
greying in my grate
while the birds sing
.
.
.
.
.
__________
©Marie Marshall
.
.
.
.
.
She’d sipped her blackcurrant juice
to make her mouth sweet for kissing me;
no one turned a hair; the geezer in the corner
chewed his stout and sighed at the air;
it’s always the halfpenny’s tar or the nail
that scuttles love, but right then the clock
was ticking and still had its run, still had
time to make its bloody murder of us.
.
.
.
.
.
__________
An old poem of mine, ‘By Ballachulish Bridge’ is now on the StAnza Poetry Festival’s Poetry Map of Scotland site. It’s No. 303. Please visit.
©Marie Marshall
.
.
.
.
.
.
old posies fill new spaces
fading as soon as made
old poesies for new faces
spring grass blade to blade
.
.
.
.
.
__________
©Marie Marshall
.
.
.
.
.
.
cut the green stick
and spring bleeds
on the old wall
.
.
.
.
.
.
__________
©Marie Marshall
.
.
.
.
.
.
the new day gold
stakes its life against
those dark corners
.
.
.
.
.
.
__________
©Marie Marshall
.
When last St Mark’s Square was flooded,
you and I stood to our ankles, warm in lapped love,
.
but now I’m past my neck, exhausted
from treading water, calling out to your ghost
‘
to let me in God’s name leave; and as if by miracle
your voice, soft, calm, oh so irritating,
‘
affectionate, says Mary, Mary, wood floats.
Sometimes I think I’m wrapping a heart of iron.
.
.
.
__________
My ‘Veronica’ poems still keep coming, still keep saying something. I hope.
©Marie Marshall
.
.
.
.
I offered to build Veronica a house,
she shook her head, told me to build her
one in my dreams; I made it in virtuality instead,
a modular thing, oh the empty echo. I recall
her last: I will my poverty to the streets.
.
I wondered how many virtual homeless
I could shelter, my eyes old, my memory running,
rippling, youthful, endless water.
.
.
.
.
__________
©Marie Marshall
.
.
.
.
.
that dull fire red dawn gendered f
we hand-in-hand barely able to see
each other smile close in the murk
will magic heal the new wound and
birth the good grey baby day
.
.
.
.
.
__________
©Marie Marshall
I don’t often reblog stuff.
fairest minds we see
waves rolling strong former she
surfacing the fight
flailing hard to breathe
drowning often unbelieved
neath a stilled glass sea
(c) Janni Styles
Kvenna ráð 