Tuesday, 20 November 2018

F Fic, Non-fic

Poetry By Ann Carter

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The Four Leaf Clover

Yesterday I took down a book,
by CHANCE a page fell open.
And there I saw a clover pressed,
its FOUR leaves flat and frozen.

A memory pricked, a summer’s day,
my man and I went walking.
Through woods and fields, and lanes of green.
Of marriage we were talking.

We lay and kissed on soft green sward;
a four leaf clover picked,
and into my hand, was pressed this prize.
“Be mine for ever,” he wished.

With AFFECTION I recalled that day
as homeward bound we sped.
And firmly in our BELIEF of joy,
in three months we were wed.

Now forty years have turned and gone.
Did youth’s vain WISH survive?
I cradle a gnarled old hand in mine.
“Now and forever,” I sigh.

 

Seven Fingers, Seven Toes.

The sun gleams so brightly,
off white fields of snow,
The glare blinds and stings,
and confuses him so.
One hand in his jacket
and one on the pole.
One foot, then the other,
still so far to go.

He slips down the snow slope,
limps by the lake shore.
Six long miles he’s travelled,
there’s still fifteen more.
The sun has now fallen,
the shadows they speak.
The cold makes him shiver,
the wind makes him weep.

He stumbles and lurches,
the moon lights his way.
And that's when he spies it,
the hut, they are saved.
The rescue assembles,
he’s shown them the track.
Michael’s hurt from the fall,
he’ll pray till they’re back.

Long hours did he spend there,
they bandaged his hurts.
Then men crest the high ridge,
he hears their cries first.
He watches the stretcher
they carry with care.
An agonising deep breath,
to hope, will he dare?

The faces are smiling,
the doctor they call.
The stretcher is grounded,
he stands, almost falls.
The copter has taken
them down to the town.
Its Michael they take first,
in surgical gown.

While waiting they tell him,
he’ll lose those three toes.
And the hand that was crushed,
three fingers must go.
It's nothing, he says then,
a small price to pay.
He’ll still climb that mountain,
with Michael one day.

Till then seven fingers,
and toes he will own.
So he can’t play piano,
that’s no cause to moan.
Because if he's honest,
he’d have to admit.
He couldn’t play piano
before, not one bit.

 

My Darkest Secret
From the moment he brought it home,
I hated it.
From the moment we stood alone,
I hated it.
But he loved it so.
Wouldn’t let it go.
NO, no, no, I hated it.

I needed to get rid of it,
made secret plans.
Had to look like an accident,
made secret plans.
I hated it so,
it had to go,
even though, made secret plans.

He is aware that it has gone,
I know nothing.
He searches the house hard and long,
I know nothing.
Where did it go?
Hunt high and low.
He sighs but I know nothing.

Earlier I took out my knife.
It felt so good.
Alone I ended its short life.
It felt so good.
I rent and cut,
enjoyed so much,
lost myself, it felt so good.

I buried it in the garden,
my darkest hour.
I silently begged his pardon,
my darkest hour.
How could a shirt,
cause so much hurt?
Does he know? See him glower

Tomorrow,
I’ll buy him a Louis Vuitton.

 

Ann Carter spent most of her working life as a Management Consultant in the United Kingdom. As a child, with Air Force parents, she lived in a number of exotic locations that included Aden and Singapore. As an adult, however, she has lived a more prosaic existence in Cornwall, Yorkshire, and Lincolnshire. Here she adores the traditional English countryside but sees how population growth and creeping urbanization are slowly eating away at England’s two thousand-year-old heritage. As an avid gardener and watercolor painter she extends that thread of creativity by writing poetry, using the medium to express her misgivings at the way we treat our environment and our unwillingness to knuckle down and put the world back to rights.

You can read more of Ann's poetry in her upcoming release, "Annie's Box of Bits and Bobs." Ann also has two book series available for purchase: Lillum of the Nile (historical fiction) and My Lady's Bower (fantasy).

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