Last night I heard a poet read
He read of drink and sex and death
He read of Aberdeen
Grandfather came from Aberdeen
His Maltese wife birthed not four seals
But she who mothered me
Grandfather's bones lie with his wife
In a Maltese charnel house
My mother lies in a Scottish grave
Atop her ain true love
The poet's words dug up the dead
And flung their bones into my days
He flashed his words and stopped my blood
With rags of torn lost love
Haunting words removed from joy
Jarred by the ring of a mobile phone
Delivered stark in lectern light
Finished with wine and brittle chat
But I didn't stay for that
2 comments:
Wow, Jo, you brought tears to my eyes, then on reflection, I wondered how your book is coming along? Claire
Thanks, Claire, I am working on the first draft of the final chapter. Your question is exactly right!
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