Four Poems by Nia Harries

 

My Fiesta is a time machine

It takes me over hill and vale, to lands

of legends; green and vast

and breath-taking.

It rounds bends and skims over

mountains that seem like

 

the top of the world, and

takes me back to castles

and dragons and glory days gone.

It lets me see the swoop of

the red-tailed bird, and reimagined

Arthurian adventures, with a bearded

Merlin and running boars, and

tales of giants felled.

 

My Fiesta is a time machine.

 

It lets me sneak through yesterday

and watch it all fly past the window

at speed, where the seasons blur,

and the times all mingle. It shows me

childhood friends and family

long gone, and that lady in the lake

peeks her head over the hill, nods in

recognition and acknowledgement.

 

She knows that even sped

up I can see that time has no place,

and nothing really changes here.

On St David’s Day

My cousin chewed the leek that day,

not a euphemism but the honest truth.

He was hungry so he said;  it might

have been the woollen shorts and biting cold

that made him do it.

I remember the ribbon my Mamgu

tied tightly under my chin, so the

black hat that balanced too tall

on my head remained.

It felt unsteady all day, and the

lace frills inside it that framed my face

itched almost as much as my black and red

wool check coat did. Almost.

My shawl was white, more lace,

and the daffodil that pinned it in place

began to look limp by lunchtime.

I always wanted the shawls with

the pretty paisley patterns, but

I always got the white one.

I liked the apron. It didn’t sit

against my skin, and so it couldn’t

itch like the rest. Of course,

you couldn’t complain because

it was tradition you see.

Once the photographer had been

to get the papers’ photo of us all

stood outside, just one good one

before all the leeks were gone,

we could slowly peel off

the layers of our past and

be comfortable again for a little while.

Seasons change

Our days were numbered when

the leaves started to turn.

You needed your space and I

needed someone who wasn't lukewarm.

Halfway never was my forte.

Flecks of amber and gold hinted

among the green, just as our cracks

started to peek through too.

Broken souls crushed together

in a tide of loneliness,

so sure in our hope and yearning that this

was the more we really wanted.

Crimson confetti fluttered to the ground

just as my tears flowed, and my arms

were left as empty as the branches above;

their leaves deserted them too.

You needed something you just couldn't see

in me, and I needed someone who

saw me exactly as I am

and loved me anyway.

Neither of us got our wish in the end.

 

When Buckland Calls

Not all who wander are lost.

Some have taken an unexpected turn,

down a twisty mossy path

that leads to a new destination.

Or maybe they've stopped

to smell the roses, or watch

the blackbird picking leaves

from the forest floor to line

its home. Not daring to move too

fast for fear of startling it,

making it flee in fear.

Some may be looking for adventure,

some for peace, or a quiet

gentle jaunt amongst the trees,

and they simply followed the smell

of pine in their nostrils rather

than watch their step.

Others are hoping and waiting,

who knows what for? Maybe for

the roots of the trees to wrap

around their feet, and make them

their own. Pull them back away

from humanity.

Whatever that is.

Claim them with a coat of rough bark

and a penchant for standing

tall in a storm. The sturdiness

of wood spreading through

their veins, and redefining.

Leaves sprouting forth tentative

and bright. When finally

they grow green and great; unflinching

in their ownness. Then they will

lift their roots in unison, begin

their march, and wander once more.

 

Nia Harries - Originally from rural Wales, Nia has lived in East Yorkshire the past 6 years. A single mother and occasional blogger, her self-published collection ‘Walking through the shadows’ was published in 2017. She has featured in The High Wolds Poetry Festival and accompanying collections, The Amphibian Literary Journal, Delicate Emissions,  

Noctivagant Press, Discretionary Love, and will soon feature in Boats Against the Current, Fiery Scribe, and also Sunday Morning at the River’s next anthology later this year.

When not writing she can be found walking in woodlands trying to talk to the trees, drinking strong coffee and eating good cake, or occasionally attempting to knit or crochet badly.

Social Media handles: - Blog- niaharries.wordpress.com Twitter: @niaharries1