Clouded Vision
I knew you were there,
out here
somewhere.
I tried to find you
but my vision clouded.
With my head in the clouds
I could only dream.
Now I know
I must let you go
free.
Free with the birds.
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The Eyes Of The Storm
What does the owl see
when the lightning
flashes
light up the night sky
with sheets
of light
horizontal flashes
with vertical
floor to ceiling
punctuation
from heaven to earth.
What does the owl see
when lightning strikes
through the hail and snow,
the wind and the rain.
What did the owl see
when awestruck
by lightning
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Nothing Is Quite Right
I thought I would go to the beach today
but when I got there nothing was quite right.
It was too cold for bikinis
in spite of being August
with bright summer light
it was buttoned up winter there.
So I thought a coffee would be good,
or maybe warming hot chocolate,
but the cafe was topsy turvy,
had tipped over
on to it’s side
and I couldn’t find a way to get in,
a way to sit down and place my order.
So I walked down the streets
and wondered how long
it would be before they became topsy turvy too.
Or perhaps they’ll stay the right way up,
I couldn’t say.
I tried to cross the bridge to reach the pink castle,
but it had become the wrong shape
too steep
to walk over
and I was disconcerted by the paper shapes
that were replacing the buildings.
They looked pretty,
I liked them,
but they still weren’t quite right.
Even later, when I woke up
it still looked all wrong
and nothing was ever
quite right
again.
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Another Country
Their move to north Wales didn’t go to plan.
It was so different from the south of England
and the house, bought in a phone call was not as she expected.
There was so much she hadn’t been told over the phone,
and so much more she had forgotten to ask.
There were more leaks than expected,
but she had expected a bathroom,
however basic
and even the old toilet outside
didn’t work.
There was a lot to think of
a lot to sort out
in their new home
in this new place,
in a new country
where she knew no one.
So, she could be forgiven
for forgetting
to warn him.
She picked him up eagerly
after his first morning in school.
“Was it good?“ she asked.
“Were the other children nice,
did you have fun?”
“It was great, Mum,” he answered.
She sighed with relief.
Something had gone right.
“There was one thing
that was really strange
though.”
She looked up alarmed.
“Oh no, what was that!?”
“They all spoke French!”
he said.
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That Was Us
That was us
who wandered through Europe without maps or money,
or sense of direction.
Who got lost a lot,
but didn’t get raped or murdered.
So far as we can remember.
Who charmed hoteliers into letting us stay for free.
Who got up early (too cold to sleep),
and cleaned the kitchen and the floors of the hostel in Laumiere
for the first time in many years.
Then sat on the stairs and said ‘No Pasaran’ to everyone, until it had dried,
explaining carefully in languages we did not speak,
why this was necessary.
Who, with wide eyed innocence and impressively bad French
failed to understand the policemen’s demands,
‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’
Until our new friends with the nice smiles and no papers had disappeared.
‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’
Sod off!
That was us
who swam off the rocks, with a man we’d met in a cafe,
because he said we could.
And swam and swam until two policemen came,
(one very stern and one very twinkly),
and said we couldn’t.
Nor could we leave the rocks without clothes on,
or with clothes clinging to our still wet bodies,
or lie on the rocks until we were dry,
in case we disconcerted the traffic or populace.
This being the main street in Trieste.
Who lived in a house ‘typique du Turque’ with a water pump in the garden
and a toilet, also ‘Typique du Turque’, which made us very ill indeed.
But the parties were good and the conversations interesting,
even though no one spoke English.
And we learned to speak some Albanian, which was always handy.
And we survived to sit thirstily by a hot, dusty roadside and fantasise
about the ice cold mountain water streaming through the streets of Pec,
and even about the water pump in the garden.
Who left Barcelona dressed in summer skirts and sandals
and arrived late by a dark roadside in snowy Andorra,
at a place full of ‘apres ski’ types with plummy voices and fat wallets,
inviting us into their warm hotel to buy us drinks and hot food,
to warm us up, they said.
No chance!
No class traitors, us! Not us,
Not us.
They’re not like us,
these two old women in the mirror
wearing our jeans and our smiles.
Not us,
they can’t be us.
Not us.
Not us.
https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/05/which-face-do-you-see.html
Through the Glass
Alice saw herself in her looking glass
and walked through
into a topsy turvy world where
everything was back to front and inside out.
She drifted into a dreamscape
of madness and unreality,
without breaking the glass.
Uncut by the shards of her mirror
or the place she entered into.
She had only to wake to make
things the right way round again.
But walking through a clear glass,
a transparent window,
it would have been different.
Her reflection would float
towards a place where everything
seemed the right way round.
Where everything made sense
and added up sweet with reason.
A place without madness,
which looked easy to enter
and had no sharp edges.
Apparently.
But this glass forms an invisible barrier
to the other side and the life
that seduces and entices her.
And to get through she has to break the glass,
whose sharp edges cut her
and propel her crazily into a place
where she cannot wake.
A jagged, topsy turvy place
where everything spins round wildly.
Where caricatures of humanity scream out
trying to make sense of it.
Front to back and outside in.
Everything is the wrong way round again.
https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/05/which-face-do-you-see.html
Reflection
Tell me, mirror,
which face do you see
behind the glass?
Perhaps it’s a pale face
unsullied by sun,
moist and unlined,
a glowing reflection
shining
unbroken,
unlined.
But, let me scrape away the surface
to reveal the clear glass in places,
as if it were old, tarnished
and distressed.
Tell me mirror
which face do you see now?
Perhaps the face seems hazy,
patchy like the glass
as it reflects lines
and textures,
blotches
and blemishes.
Well, as time has passed both have
picked up some dirt in passing.
Maybe it’s darker still
in places,
in the deep places
not usually seen
Did the scraping away the glitter
reveal the treasure
and texture beneath
or is the new reflection a distortion
of reality.
Tell me, mirror,
which face do you see?
https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/05/which-face-do-you-see.html
