photo by Etienne Delorieux (unsplash)
Harvest Supper – a Sestina
When skies bloom indigo at close of day the tall trees of my childhood summon me to wander through the meadows by the stream and watch the water vole dive from the bank as nature hunkers down for timely rest and silent owls swoop low across the fields Long hours today we worked in harvest fields to stack the sheaves in rows by close of day. Now harvest supper beckons, offers rest for weary hands; my father calls to me to go secure the boat moored on the bank, prevent the current sweeping it downstream Task done I watch the fireflies as they stream from underneath the bridge across the fields Then suddenly a creature on the bank alerts my gaze, a fox I see each day, quite tame, he seems to have no fear of me yet rushes off to hunt, no time for rest. Most farmhands have arrived; I watch the rest come hurrying out, from everywhere they stream to join the celebrations, and for me it’s time to leave the river, cross the fields, sit down to eat, enjoy this holiday, forsake the whispering trees and quiet bank. I crave roast turkey, yet I cannot bank on what they’ll serve tonight; at least the rest is distributed to the poor next day. They’ll wait in huddles by the village stream then laden down stroll back home through the fields, chatting and smiling, calling out to me. The farmer’s wife comes over, questions me, asks if I saw the red fox on the bank go leaping headlong through the stubble fields before he ran off home for well-earned rest. I tell her how I watched him by the stream, swear that he grows more tame each passing day. A supper in the fields is fine by me. I’d eat there every day upon the bank and take a rest, sit gazing at the stream. In the Steps of Picasso Ekphrastic Poem on his painting ‘Mother and Child by a Fountain’ Blue Madonna with indigo child; a vision paused in time. She lingers deep in thought by a life-giving fountain, the babe is her arms is every child, innocence swaddled in anonymity. She is Gaia, universal mother, birthing both joy and sorrow. Her tears are the flowing wellhead water, freely shed for all humanity. Blank faces convey a myriad possibilities, no finer details needed. Ours to interpret. Goddess in a Mediterranean Heatwave I am a goddess rising from foaming waves, spume braiding a lacy web around my limbs, resplendent in Salacian nakedness. Shingle clings in gooey stickiness to ankles and toes. Pre-raphaelite curls stream in arabesque down my back, a waterfall on fire. On days of sultry heat from a witches’ cauldron I throw on a simple kaftan, sashay barefoot to market, flesh free of cloying underwear, yet suitably hiding my modesty from the world; alive to the sun spilling its life-giving force from a cloudless counterpane of cornflower blue. High summer presages a bohemian lifestyle. Oh to espouse that Mediterranean vibe, that abandonment to the whims of a manyana code. Yet, sadly, it’s just a dream, a wistfulness that glances across closed eyelids on summer nights; an alter ego slighted by deep-seated conformity Midnight in a Parisian bar Inspired by Edward Hopper’s ‘Nighthawks’ Alone, yet somehow connected, perching like birds on branches, gracefully alighting, then frozen in the moment. They share the weight of history, each one an island yet part of an archipelago, a co-dependency, where numbness is the shared reality. In the dim light boredom illuminates an average clientele, tarrying awhile, procrastinating, choosing light over darkness, the communality of silence over grim solitude; here enjoying a lack of constraint, freedom to just be in the moment, brain disengaged. The outsider finds no refuge, no door through which he may enter, seek solace, linger with a beverage or cigarette and dream… These birds are nesting in an exhibition, wings framed against the darkness, their saviour of the hour a lowly bar-tender, a dove of peace with crested white plumage and mimed repartee. If the clock moves on and we stare in through the prison of glass, the birds may start to interact, glance up from coffee and book as the white dove makes a cryptic comment. People-watching at Essaouira Harbour Early morning fishing boats docking storm flash reds sunset ochres. purple patches jazz hand sails flashing All vying for prime position to offload their catch. Fishermen hollering fit to deafen Jimmy Hendrix’ memory, air thick with psychedelic hum And then the first call to prayer, outdoing even the piercing seagull cries. Two youths in jeans and converse boots fooling around on the sea wall like tightrope walkers - the epitome of contemporary cool, swinging my camera into action, firing the synapses in my brain. And then again that urgent call to prayer, that dogged insistence, impossible to ignore! Below the wall, two figures stride across rough slabs, heads into the wind – as though mirroring the boys above - Berbers in djellabas vapour trails of oud streaming behind My camera clicks quick-fire shots momentarily catching them together yet soon parted, like ships in the night I switch to video run alongside filming And yet again that persistent call, drowning out the harbour cacophony, like biblical cockcrow….. yet a thousand times thrice! Bio: Margaret is a poet with six published poetry books: most recently a poetry collection, Immersed in Blue, Earth Magicke, (both from Impspired Press), two poetry collections, Fording The Stream (2017, independently published), Where Flora Sings (2020, Hedgehog Press), a Stickleback micro-chapbook Singing The Earth Awake,( Hedgehog Press Oct 2019) and a memoir in prose and verse, The Road To Cleethorpes Pier (2020, Crumps Barn Studio). She has been shortlisted for several poetry prizes, won the Hedgehog Press’ collection competition (May 2020) and that collection Where Flora Sings was nominated for the Laurel Prize. She has been widely published in journals and online, most recently Impspired, Open Door, Flights ( Dragonfly) Dreich , Black Bough Poetry and forthcoming in Sarasvati. Margaret leads a poetry group in Nottinghamshire and is a regular performer at open mic events. She is currently writing her first novel and working on a third poetry collection. Twitter:@RoyallMargaret Author blog page:Facebook.com/margaretbrowningroyall Instagram: meggiepoet Website: margaretroyall.com
Fevers of the Mind 
Very nice
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