wordplay

Brokenshire

A place as real as any other

occupying jagged and rusting fragments of memory

the landscape pitted and scarred

a minefield strewn with the rubble of old hurts and sorrows

through which my mind habitually and skilfully dodges

carefully swerving certain issues

finding detours and diversions

picking my way through the salvage of my past

yet ever returning to that familiar track

like a worn groove in an old vinyl, crackling, deafening.

a needle that’s stuck, going over and over and yes, maddeningly so.

until with the help of a timely and forceful nudge,

can jump forward and break free

I’ll still visit from time to time, but I’m not stopping

Marcella January 2017

Cobblestones

Cobblestones rattle out at a deserted bomb ravaged landscape

disgruntlement dictated in his every step;

mocking echoes mark the path to this battlefront,

to find her waiting patiently? Happy domesticity, for who? Not she..

Having known the taste of freedom, to be told now again, ‘know your place!’

Shackled yet; she’ll black the hearth, redden the step, fetch his tea.

Starch those collars and sheets my girl if you know right;

Not as if she’s like some others, braced ready come night,

for the fist, or the kiss  goodnight; 

And many more would rejoice full sure, to see her man walk through the door.

Would the old Gods grin with mischievous glee to see how hard he strives,

to set his yoke again upon her wearied back;

as they descry how desperately he relies on her;

her strength, good sense, resilience. They’ll muddle on, as before.

Laying down the law, as he was by duty bound, ‘you’ll fetch my dinner, by heck!’

‘I will indeed’, she said, compliantly; as stooping, seized their old hen, by the neck.