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Back                                 My Aunt Lucy

My Aunt Lucy paid for her fear
the better part of fifty year.

Respectable spinster, she had been young
but long ago.

She did not weep,
she did not groan,
yet each instalment that was met
etched a line upon her face.

Outwardly, time withered slow
her slender shape and grace of limb.
And only those who used her eyes,
Windowed ways into her soul,
knew the girl who trembled there.

I have seen birds peck away
the hollow from a lump of bread.
Each longing day and longer night
fed on her heart and bones, and head.

Why is her brow lined with dismay?
Who could have loved as well as they?

                                      Ellis Soloman

Viking Dawn

Longships travelling by night
Crafted from Oak
Silhouetted against the sky
Parting the grey sea
Silvered by the moon
Hard blonde warriors as crew
Salted by brine, bleached by sun, soddened by rain
Sailing into the Humber estuary
Red sails emerging  thru melted mists at dawn
Angels with bearded faces
Blue eyed devoid of feelings
Intent on rape and pillage
Desiring gold, delivering death
Entering the Ouse by midday
Monastic enclave fringed by nature

Attacked from down river
Men wielding axe blows
Brethren bloodied, cleaved, dead
Fit for carrion and rats
Prior Robert clutching gold crucifix
Vikings driving cattle
Leaving monastery in flames
Casting Prior Robert's severed hand down a latrine
Corpses rolled in the river
Turned then floated away.
 

Ken  Windle

 

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