2 poems by Foy Timms “Widow Grammar” “The Seagull Prison”

selective-focus photograph of seagull
photo from Unsplash
Widow Grammar

Three widows take their bodies and umbrellas into town,
Still semi-dwelling in damp unread newspaper thoughts,
Stepping onto the 9.48 bus,
Thumbing their disquiet into the seats.

Three widows rattle along inside a rheumatic ill winter,
Shaking their symptoms onto one another.
They adjust to their horoscopes, 
Haul prescient heart sacks around town
And collect days on their backs.

Three widows take their bodies and umbrellas to visit others,
Spinning their widow grammar across houses
with wilting flowers

The Seagull Prison 

There is a diesel cry of a seagull encircling this coastal town,
Carrying your left behind sighs and intermittent tenderness, 
I retrieve scraps of you from the deserted quay,
Cut off in a numb suspended biopic,
Left to play back after recording itself,
Stuttering along in blunt irrelevance.
I watch from my mind's uneasy deckchair,
At the end of the beach.

I guess he cared in his own way.

Photography from Foy Timms

Poems by Foy Timms : “Prising a Hibernation from Beneath a Winter Coat” “Ceaseless” “My Night as a Scar on Your Chin” “Curtain House Wounds” “Tableau” “Folding the Night into a Black Cab”

Poems by Foy Timms : “Prising a Hibernation from Beneath a Winter Coat” “Ceaseless” “My Night as a Scar on Your Chin” “Curtain House Wounds” “Tableau” “Folding the Night into a Black Cab”

Prising a Hibernation from beneath a Winter Coat

Icepicking his hibernation from monopolies beyond himself,
he offers his survival to the frost-encrusted park.
A survival stretching itself across frostbitten hands
into distant towns.
He shakes wardrobes of her pale history onto the jagged prescience
of trees.
in smithereens of memory.
Her pale yet furious history settles against his worn frame.


The moon is stapled to the night sky.
He is lying carefully across each memory.
Salvaging a winter of tenderness
before the street shrinks.
Her face perpetually recurring.
When apparitions of touch escape thinly onto tomorrow

My Night as a Scar on your Chin

I abandon my belongings on your chest,
to climb your craggy chin-cliff,
my arms tenacious in their endeavour.
I clasp your jutting jawline,
my urchin limbs pulling upwards.

I lie unpacked on your face,
reclining and rolling over,
decadent in blistering heat,
nearing your mouth and its disasters within.

I retreat from your ruinous voice haunts,
leaving a scar as I descend.

Curtain House Wounds

At the bottom of these eyes, there is a quiet stirring
as streets wake up and mornings fall abruptly between us.
We were prising open a memory
with the blunt scissors of noon,
when our lone child leapt from these arms
across a season’s unfaithfulness,
introducing a silence heavier than bone.


Running onto midnight’s porch
where passions scribble themselves

beyond hideouts
and nervous guests
by goading the clock,

hanging their thoughts on coat stands
and dancing on the wisdom of wounds.

Folding the Night into a Black Cab

Collapsed across a taxi’s heart,
we inhabit a burgeoning blizzard of hands.
Inside tomorrow, we forge a wilderness,
A patchwork wilderness

where cavernous brutal needs visit us indefinitely.
The damp chatter of dusk nudges our weekdays awake
but in this moment, we derive warmth from a taxi’s heart,

Invert ourselves alive,

Allow the windows to be sorrow proof for the briefest time,

When I said marry me for tonight alone.

photos by Foy Timms

Bio: Foy Timms is a poet/writer/photographer based in Reading, Berkshire, U.K. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Abridged, Briefly Write, Dust Poetry, Fevers Of The Mind Poetry Digest, Hypnopomp, Merak Magazine, North of Oxford, Peeking Cat Poetry, Pulp Poets Press, Sage Cigarettes, Selcouth Station Press, Small Leaf Press, Tealight Press and Twist in Time, among others. She is preoccupied with themes such as displacement, marginal characters, fleeting encounters, British towns/villages, social exclusion and the sociopolitical dimensions of living spaces.