Joan unknown

by Sandra Davies

Having met when both were out of context,
she’d embellished his pewter actuality
with her golden dreams,
too young to know to hide her disappointment
at his hard-working, everyday normality.

Outnumbered by in-laws
and cowed by expectation
she compromised a co-existence.
Four sons (three of little consolation
and sadly damaged George), and
three daughters who, sharp-eyed,
observed, resolved they would do better.

After more than thirty years together
he died, appointed her executrix
but failed to name her ‘best-beloved.’ 

Small, brown, grave-faced and brittle
with martyred self-justification,
she lived another decade,
unwillingly missing him more than anticipated.  

Her final will and testament
overturned all his intentions,
provided carefully calculated sums for sons
and a pleasurable allocation
of linen, pewter, beds and bolsters
between Martha, Margaret and spinster Francis,
who further received one cow and a bullock.

She was buried as ‘relict’ of Robert Poole.

Blows the wind southerly

by Sandra Davies

and the sound of the fair, intermittent,
flies up the hill.
Raucous loud,
urge-to-join-in distortion,
coloured lights
causing memories to flash.
Dragging smoke swirling dodgem dark eyes
and sparks hinting at what I don’t know.
Tweed jacket and cap,
skinny lad,
knowing sloe-eyes
denying the promise his mouth makes.
Swinging easy and supple
and warns I would ask the wrong questions.
My ignorance swirling with premature ache for experience.

If there had been magic

by Sandra Davies

If there had been magic
The cellophane I held up so that light could shine right through,
while tug of caramel and nut still sang sweetly in my mouth,
its twist-creased part smoothed clarity, its richly purple glow
would become a robe of velvet, ermine edged,
sweeping majesty across a stone-flagged floor.

If there had been magic
The king would overrule, stern voiced, his crimson foil dressed queen,
dark widow’s peak misleadingly heart-shaping whitened face.
She’d softly speak to her liege lordly spouse, not haughty swirl her skirts,
while cherried lips spat stoney words that teetered on the edge of taunt,
imperious, insulting in the thrusting of her pearl encrusted gown.

If there had been magic
The king and queen would be united in their choice of suitor for their daughter.
And she would acquiesce, sweet strawberry joy.
Instead her pink stained skin is stamped with teenage tantrums,
her flounces deliquescent, flirting with her mother’s pirate king
and her sulks incense her father’s fledged but not yet full grown prince.

If there had been magic
The turquoise and silver trappings of the adolescent Prince
would have stiffened his soft-fudged and yielding spine.
Instead of which the princess fell for Black Jack’s flashing eyes,
his treasure chest of gold moidores, maps and bones and rum.
Full failed to see the villainy behind his pantomime façade.