Passing The Sutor

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

'Passing The Sutor', acrylic on card by James Newton Adams.

I come here every day I love it when my jumper matches the boat.

Today red. A little jackpot. I'll maybe see her, our dogs are quite friendly now and last time she laughed.

If only I would just say it.

'Passing The Sutor' by Iain Finlay Macleod.

The Orchids

'Orchids and New Moon', watercolour and collage on paper by Jenny Matthews.

Orchids by Hazel Simmons-McDonald 

 

I leave this house
box pieces of the five-week life I;ve gathered.
I’ll send them on
to fill spaces in my future life.
One thing is left
a spray of orchids someone gave
from a bouquet one who makes a ritual of flower-giving sent.
The orchids have no fragrance
but purple petals draw you
to look at the purple heart.
I watered them once
when the blossoms were full blown
like polished poems.
I was sure they’d wilt
and I would toss them out with the five-week litter.
They were stubborn.
I starved them.
They would not die.
This morning the bud at the stalk’s tip unfurled.
I think I’ll pluck the full-blown blooms
press them between pages of memory.
Perhaps in their thin dried transparency
I’ll discover their peculiar poetry.
-Hazel Simmons McDonald

Personal Helicon

'Personal Helicon', oil on canvas by Dylan Lisle.

Personal Helicon by Seamus Heaney

As a child, they could not keep me from wells
And old pumps with buckets and windlasses.
I loved the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells
Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss.

One, in a brickyard, with a rotted board top.
I savoured the rich crash when a bucket
Plummeted down at the end of a rope.
So deep you saw no reflection in it.

A shallow one under a dry stone ditch
Fructified like any aquarium.
When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch
A white face hovered over the bottom.

Others had echoes, gave back your own call
With a clean new music in it. And one
Was scaresome, for there, out of ferns and tall
Foxgloves, a rat slapped across my reflection.

Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,
To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring
Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme
To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.

Horsepower

HORSEPOWER

The horses look
at all that power
the classic car club
in strict formation
like men o’ war
painted and polished
good enough
to meet the Queen. 
'Horsepower' by Iain Finlay MacLeod.

'Horsepower', oil on canvas by James Newton Adams.