(Published in Quamtum Leap, June 2023, 2nd prize winner in Open comp)

 

THE OPEN FIRE

Little people with high pitched voices

ran around in the flames and a little girl’s mind,

as the cats jostled for position and smiled at the heat.

 

The morning saw mother on her knees

dabbing a cloth into soft pink grit that danced across the tiles,

and filled my nostrils with a bubblegum scent.

 

Pink grit in a tin that seemed to last forever,

all part of the morning ritual, that also saw ash decanted

to a galvanised bucket and anything else reused

 

with kindlin chopped for pocket money

that merged with paper sticks, made with great effort

from yesterday’s Scotsman or the Southern Reporter

 

A door off the kitchen led straight into the coal house

always dark and cold, where a soot faced strongman

emptied heavy bags, like a landslide

 

something ominous about the rumble of falling coal

made me stay well away, just incase,

I disappeared beneath and was never found

 

and please make sure no cats enter here,

for fear of sooty paws on precious linen

embroidered with love and sent from Ireland

 

or even worse that a dark corner inside,

was a more appealing option, than chilly winds,

for the feline call of nature

 

those who didn’t get prime position

in front of the open fire,

purred beneath the skirts of the loose covers

 

Winged chairs, drawn close for relaxation

and warmth, shared with a little girl

who jostled with the hearth rug cat.

 

No such joy with central heating,

faceless, invisible, and all at

the flick of a switch.

 

Little people still dance and sing

in my fire, kept alive by glorious

Silver Birch, stacked outside in a

log shelter, created by kind neighbours.

No coal shed connects to my kitchen,

just a faceless concrete bunker, that fills from

the top and seems to let in rain.

 

All essential to maintain

comfort and warmth and create a focal point

that visitors always envy.

 

 

 

TIME FOR AN UPDATE

 

I haven't been on here for a very long time.  Here's a poem that was recently published and is a favourite of mine.

MEMORIES FROM MELLON UDRIGLE (a special place)

 

Clear turquoise water

strokes crystalline sands

that yawn before the Summer Islands

on the distant horizon.

 

Prominent mountains,

pastels, blue, purple

in the autumn sunlight,

this is a special place,

introduced to me by someone dear

who invited me to stay beside the shore

in a wonderful old farmhouse

with sloping floors and frayed carpets.

But sleep came easy in crisp white cotton

that dressed a mahogany bed

 

We swam in the crystal waters

talked until dawn,

cooked sausages on an open fire

and dreamt of returning, year upon year.

 

We crunched barefoot across

the secret shell beach,

that was a delight to little faces

who filled plastic buckets with memories.

 

When illness struck, she cried happy tears

as she swam in the calm waters.

She made it there, not long before she left us,

tucked into a chair, that faced across the water

to pastel mountains.

 

She phoned me to describe her view

like an excited child,

her voice breaking with emotion

Her final moments,

her special place.

 

I’ll return one day,

hoping to catch her laughter on the breeze.

 

https://www.thepeoplesfriend.co.uk/2020/02/17/writer-of-the-week-patsy-goodsir/ 

HE SANG TO ME

I’ d only just stepped outside,

when he hopped towards me

like a small child,

greeting his mother.

 

not daring to move,

I said hello,

what do you want?

he tilted his haloed eye

 

and cocked his handsome head,

before bursting into song,

like a rendition of Nessun Dorma,

his crisp tone

speared my heart,

leaving me in awe

that he trusted me enough

to deliver such beauty

in such a captivating way.

 

Blinking  upwards

he almost smiled,

and repeated  his song

before he flapped his wings

and was gone,

leaving me humbled

that he sang especially for me.