Mary Wight- New Poetry

SIGHTSEEING

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,
dumb.

*****************************************

HARD ROCK

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.

**************************************************

BRINGING ALSTROEMERIA

Bringing
wet green stems
of alstroemeria
you
astonish me,
knowing
the gift.

I listened
once
to you
read Neruda,
thought
then
as now,
of the heat
in loving,
awe felt
in mystery,
life
emerging
from
places
of dust
and emptiness.

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

Bringing
wet green stems
of alstroemeria
you
astonish me,
knowing
your gift.

******************************************************

ROCKING

 Suddenly one has the right eyes.

 Rilke.

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.

Related Articles

Proof of Life – Bill Rector

Poet and retired physician, Bill Rector shares two poems which convey compellingly the shock of intense beauty

Christopher Hopkins. Poetry

NavigatorA hawk head of a sun.Neck line & forearms,wind hushed redfrom the grip of the unexpected heat. I watch youin this flipped world.Navigator.Stargazer of the flicker...

Peter Clive Poetry

A whisky grace I raise a glass to you, Lord: there is no fountain, no breath-taking conceit of ornamental marble spouting perfectly orchestrated jets and arcs of...

More Like This

The World Is Quiet Here – Rosie Bogumil

THE WORLD IS QUIET HERE Silence sulks. But thoughts are loud, louder than my voice will ever be,  somehow still...

The Dweller by Elaine Dillof

After 45 years in the antique business Elaine Dillof, retired, has returned to an early love, writing.

Isis at the Christmas Do. Poem by Francis O’Hare

Isis at the Christmas Do The usual forced festive yuletide scene of Staff Welfare day. Beauty and Health are both on the menu. A...

Second Wind by Fiona Sinclair

Second Wind Retiring at 65, you get a second wind. Your mornings are tinkering. Your afternoons are feet up watching classic 90s...

Migraineur and other poems by Michele Seminara

Michele Seminara's most recent collection is Engraft (Island Press in 2016)