Sharon Larkin – three poems


I didn’t want to
but you enticed me out,
found me waterproofs
with a hood, wellingtons
only one size too big.

You even warmed me
an oversize cardigan
and ski socks
on the radiator,
to wear underneath,
located gloves,
and a woolly hat
for me to put on
under the hood.

I’d be snug as well as dry.
You thought of everything.
You always did.

Halfway up the hill,
we leaned on a farm gate
to consider the hazy view –
the town spread out
below low cloud,
blurred further by rainlines
drawn aslant
and fat raindrops that plopped
from headgear and lashes.

Your face was wet,
as was mine.
You had a clean handkerchief
and wanted to dry my cheeks with it.

I did not want that,
turned away from your last kind,
proprietorial act.

Summer Evening Sounds

The sting had gone from the sun.
Reddened flesh tightened in the shadows,
a meagre breeze ruffled the willows overhead,
a blackbird at the mill
sang in its local accent.
Her young-girl scent
mingled with his sweat
in the thickening air.
The parish clock struck nine.
There would be thunder later.
Across the brook, a sheep bleat,
nearby, a gnat whine,
and here, a smart slap of a cheek,
one set of footprints
in the gathering dew.

Shaggy Inkcaps

Yesterday they were intact,
a quartet of upstanding apostles,
all white, under the tree as you turn

into the lane. Coprinus comatus,
apparently. They looked clean,
like boys-next-door are supposed to be.

I meant to go out with a camera,
forgot, and find them now, shrunken
to half their height, greying old men

in widowers’ weeds like damp blokes
in sour macs who spent too long
in libraries, when we had such things.

But down the path from the deliquescence
I spot a new torpedo rising from a silo,
on its way to pristine cylinderisation.

I snap it, perfect, then turn back
to the seen-better-days ones,

caps awry, spores afly, dirty beggars.

Sharon Larkin has been published online, in magazines and in anthologies including Cinnamon and Indigo Dreams. She regularly performs at poetry cafés and open mics and held the chair of her local poetry society for four years. She has a Creative Writing MA and a passion for Welsh language and literature. Her blog, Coming up with the Words, is at

2 thoughts on “Sharon Larkin – three poems

  1. Jerome Kiel December 17, 2015 / 8:22 am

    Here are some precious thoughts, perhaps memories, conveyed in words condensed into lines where each word is essential; nothing is unused, unimportant. I would like to have seen the first, Mismatch, in tercets, but the poet’s choice probably fits the intended mood, subtly showing a discomfort in the moment, making the mundane magnificent.

    Liked by 1 person

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