Marilyn Hammick – three poems

By the Mar Menor

I walk to where the sea is full
of empty boats, turn towards
a tender kept on its spot
by a line to a mooring ball.

The sea gentles the boat – back,
away, back. Salt shapes appear,
disappear on the curve of its flank,
messages coded in lacey brine,

but, like end-of-the-garden fairies,
they are only there, only return
if I let them come and let them go
without holding on.


Chanel No 5

Months after Auntie Jean died,
Uncle Tom comes to stay,
a few days, a change of scene.

I listen to the list of what he does now
– daily paper, breakfast, lunch, dinner,
until bedtime with the World Service.

In the morning, I watch him shuffle
to my bedroom door, he pauses
as if he is on the promenade

and is taking in the air
scent of woman, he whispers
although I only use soap and water.


Play in Three Acts

I
in which I pour another glass of wine,
you lock the door, pocket the key,

and when you’re close to the station
I swap stilettos for slippers

finishing yesterday’s crossword
as you sit at the table, left of the window.

II
in which after half a glass of wine,
you lock the door and pocket the key

and I change again, this time into black,
running for the fast train so that

before you arrive, I’m able to see
who sits at the table, left of the window.

III
in which I put on jeans and a t-shirt
you lock the door, pocket the key,

loosen your tie, open the post
while I go into the restaurant

to wait at the table, left of the window.


Marilyn can be found writing, stitching, walking or on her yoga mat: follow her on Twitter @trywords and glowwormcreative.blogspot.co.uk

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