Poetry- Jean Taylor

Death’s Signature

Maybe I should have known, it rained so hard,
that you had gone. Maybe I should have known
that yellow tulips spilling from the vase
reveal black-triggered hearts.
Maybe I should have wondered, seeing the glass
with its green edge, who we would kiss
when there were no more frogs. Maybe I should
have recognised your flourish in that splash of red.

These Are the Elements:

some lines on the pathway
a park bench
a pale blue pram
an old man
a Madonna and child
an unmarried mother
some lines on the pathway
an old man
a park bench
a pale blue pram
a hooded perambulator
an unmarried mother
a park bench
some lines on the pathway
an old man
a man with a long history
a hooded perambulator
some lines on the pathway
an unmarried mother
a park bench
a dilapidated bench
a man with a long history
an unmarried mother
a hooded perambulator
a cross-hatch of shadows

Black and Blue

She was born into a landscape
of bing hills and pitheads.
Coal sequinned the pathways
from sand dunes to the edge of the sea.
Now she flinches from black
as a child might draw back
from a moment of hurting,
chooses soft secondary colours
amber, moss agate, amethyst.
Wears blue to funerals.

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