Mary Wight- New Poetry


Bellies sweet with prawns and Guinness,
they dawdled back along the strand
needing nothing more.

A sea trout, eyes gone, body
gleaming still, lay as if waiting
for a wave to swim it back.

She took a photograph as
he struck out ahead warning of the tide,
footprints already filling.

She saw him climb a wire, then, half-
blinded by the glare, only miles and
empty miles of sand.

She was running, stumbling, flailing,



Rain bowled in from the ocean
until it seemed all was liquid
except the rock itself, and unseen bells.

Afternoon marooned, we drank whisky
on a narrow bed but even peat and iodine
could not distract from a darkened line
that seeped beneath our door: the creeping
stain an unwelcome metaphor.

Yellow light found me in a cemetery,
steam like breath around my feet.
Whispering a by-rote litany
I observed an hour, a half hour pass,
day fell to night behind stained glass.

Late met, we held hands, splashed through
shop-front pools of light where rows of
plastic abbeys swirled in snow,
and your thumb stroked my wedding band.
We left the rock at dawn, went on.

Waking to darkness now
on rainy nights, I see those abbeys glittering
still, the unseen bells grow loud.



wet green stems
of alstroemeria
astonish me,
the gift.

I listened
to you
read Neruda,
as now,
of the heat
in loving,
awe felt
in mystery,
of dust
and emptiness.

I cup
my palm, soft
the blade-straight
stitches where
a womb
was pulled.

wet green stems
of alstroemeria
astonish me,
your gift.



 Suddenly one has the right eyes.


Day follows day, broken by
the uninvited press of night on
a shape named by its parts:
head, breasts, belly, legs.

Unwatched branches still
make bud. Footsteps tramp
unseen streets and rain
when it falls, is only wet.

A swan chasing a moorhen
across the pond is
complete, wing-water spinning
rhinestones into April air.

A white cherry-blossom lands
on my sleeve, petal edges
tinged tongue-pink.
It rocks there—

like you, perhaps about to fall
or be lifted, travel on.
Like me, holding my breath,
suddenly weeping.

About the contributor

Mary Wight lives and writes in the Scottish Borders. Her poems have appeared in various magazines.

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