The Rubbish Tip - Susan Jones

Herring Gulls, glide,
underbellies glistening white.

Carrion Crows,
black ashes in the sky.

Feathered members line the fence,
waiting for the food lobby.

The impression – playful,
scavenger birds having fun,

as they ply the warm thermals
on a February day.

While I eat ice cream
with my Octogenarian Mum
embroidering a memory dress.

When she is no longer earthbound
and I watch the birds
on another persistent birthday,

Alone, and on my own
I won’t be completely naked.

Susan Jones

The Watchers - Susan Jones

I drive out with Mama Rosa
in the Nissan Micra,
on a June afternoon.
Rivers of road glisten:
tarmacadam flows
through country to sea.

We make sail for familiar parts
as if they were unknown.

The West Coast - beckons.
Summer seas becalmed,
bright sun - a yellow chrysanthemum,
wind blows through open windows.
Our car accelerates along the straight.

Mama Rosa frail and small boned,
sinks into her passenger seat -
quiet enjoyment cloaks her age.
While I drive,
hands at ten to two on the steering wheel;
eye on speedometer - reads the legal limit.

This is our life. In tandem,
within boundaries.
Silent acceptance of
where we are going
where we have been
where we will end.

Susan Jones

Bad fruit in Eden - Susan Jones

It's not safe
in my garden;
in the garden of England
Kent.
Eden Valley, Maidstone,
Tonbridge Wells,
home to cricket,
hop houses,
orchards
and my house;
where my dog
roamed
the backyard,
boxed in by Laurel,
privet, roses
and apple trees.

But they came.
To threaten
and terrorize;
a modern scourge.
Ransomed,
exchanged
late at night ;
a crime
no one dare speak
aloud;
but I dare now:
Dog-nappers
everywhere -
Bad fruit in the garden -
may you wither on the limb
and rot in Eden.

Susan Jones

The Swan, The Bluebottle And The Flying Horse - Susan Jones

White of wing
Black of eye
The swan crash dives
On to the surface of the pond.

A rogue blue bottle
Bops in the February sun
Too early to live and fly
She falls victim to the Swans appetite

Beneath the nearby sea shore
The flying horse darts between the kelp
He’s getting rarer to find –
To survive he will need some help

The swan, the bluebottle and the flying horse
Do not seem the sorts
To be friends on this winter day
But when its sunny, they all like to play.

So gather round and learn to speak
To the swan with the yellow beck
The bluebottle with his noisy buzz
And the flying horse who dreams of love.

Susan Jones

Unmistakably Quink - Susan Jones

An Angel sat in a sunset,
and wrote in cerise pink ink:
there’s more love, tenderness
and compassion in the world,
than whatever you may think.

The phonetic shorthand flowed,
in a frantic fluttering line:
there’s more laughter,
fun and kindness in the world-
had from friendships merry kind.

The raspberry ripple stripe
inscribed, decipherable and distinct:
there’s more gentleness.
trust and softness to be found
if you could just adjust,

rethink
reply to a stranger’s smile
a would be friend’s handclasp

it takes an open mind,
to establish a connection
solid and steadfast.

Beneath lowering clouds
of whipped egg white
colours leached from the dusk night sky

the Angel’s quill stuttered still
as the delicate link of hot pink quink
dissolved with the day’s demise

I was supremely privileged
to see such beauty,
hear words to appraise, and transcribe

indeed
there’s more spiritual richness
more opportunities
for a jaded spirit to revive,

than in one precarious lifetime I could ever chance by.

Susan Jones

Clouds of Time - Susan Jones

Wiltshire grew me
in its landlocked beauty.
Clay coloured hair,
chalk white skin,
meadow green eyes;
while flint from the hills
veined my character -
These abundant assets, nurtured
amidst a comfortable vale,
I took with me, as I stepped into adulthood.

Exiled to a quiet gem
seascapes surround me now.
Wrack covered beaches,
line the shore,
pretty bays overwhelmed then desolate
as tides rise and recede
with regular monotony.
Proved in this temperate isle,
I rose in my skin,
from young adult to old woman.

Clouds of time motor on.
Made whole, I reflect on work, pleasure,
illness and long fought for health -
my memory whirls.
Tears and laughter
direct the elaborate
weathervane of my life
but accommodated and accepted,
I settle into my fate
and find what I consider home.

Susan Jones

The Knowing - Susan Jones

Go
visit
back home, girl,
take some mind's ease,
touch again, spit drenched mauve cuckoo flowers,
smell meadow grass, eye cornflowers, true blue-
lay your heart wide
to old friends,
who know
you.

Susan Jones

The Bones Of It - Susan Jones

Turbot bones lay regimented
on restaurant white china:
no-one could strip a carcass
either Brill or Bass
with my father’s skill.
Now, I remember him -
his elegant knife,
his precise fork,
his polite passion.

With a restricted menu
I eat more fish meals;
but their remains
lay splintered and dishevelled.
Though I try to please
with careful cutlery,
it seems, all those
abandoned upturned boats
never make the beach in one piece.

Susan Jones