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New Poetry, Fiction, Essay

3 poems by Bridget Khursheed

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Bridget Khursheed is a poet and geek based in the Borders; a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award recipient, her work is widely published in publications including The Rialto, Southlight, New Writing Scotland, Valve, and Gutter. @khursheb.

 

 

 

 

Brunswick Road beach

 

 

A boat is moored here today.

Lumbering on dry dock trestles

its maze of re-used wood lascared

by fledged gulls in the gravel spoil

preening rain puddles. Half-hearted bike track.

Goods trucks chuckle down

out of sight; spray paint jellyfish.

 

The sea is contradictory. No salt.

No sand. No children. Only

keep out city council spike-topped railings.

Someone once planted fir trees, put that picnic table in,

people sunning and smoking

when the view was fine and holidays.

I walk past each day to get a sandwich.

 

Sometimes when the drizzle falls

and the light comes awkward, bright,

and the gulls drive off the piles

left after beachcombed copper wires

you can see. Through the free parking

the tide comes in again, that wishing wind

drifts me back against streetside pine.

 

 

Tree surgeons

 

 

Waiting at the red light I watch the men take down the last oak
by the new builds.

They tidy up its sticks and twigs all summer leafy self-conscious

like girls after a dressing up session,

 

armfuls of foliage awkward toppling.

Above a man on rope tiptoe shapes his way into the curve of
the last branch

lops it delicately in pieces down and drop down

 

to the waiting handmaids careless of danger with brooms now;

the tarmac must be easy for the filed cars to pass by.

The oak is the shape of an empty clothes hanger as I drive through
on green.

 

 

French trees by the roundabout

 

 

the wind outside is like the sound

of a small town where the planted

pavement hornbeams are kicked and scuffed

and gulls far from the harbour

 

cry at cars just passing lit with the last sun

beyond the supermarket, a field of cabbages

smells out the bright hoardings advertising

somewhere else

 

in the glass no plastic bags on

the figure disappearing through the televisions

reflected vehicles yielding amiably

headlights all blown like water

 

those trees that are always somewhere else

that’s the wind tonight

a very slight pollarded suggestion

of a fertile place to end

 

 

 

 

 

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