Four Poems by Wendy Webb

 

Driving Down Under, or Dreaming the Emerald Isle

 

Crossing footbridge over pregnant river,

idyllic as a painting, forcing step on step

hidden by surging waters.

Confidently wading across expanse

of suspension bridge hidden beneath

my clutching hands. Both grab rails

submerged. The dip in the middle

unimaginable. Didn’t think to swim,

knew the other side was within grasp.

A heavenly apparition, the Seine lay

            glorious.

Landing safely, woken from wet dreaming,

soul singing in praise of water.

 

And yet, as night approached,

dreading the cinema’s dwarf donkey,

house-proud cow, faithful hound, and

            endless sky.

Sheep shears? Possibly.

Trapped on island; avoiding hellish nightmares…

I should be glad of YouTube videos

from Australian backwater:

er, main road. Floods.

Filming, filming, cruising, turning,

floating, capsize, evacuation.

Heavenly visions, hey:

My life on course to the other side.

Perhaps I could remain awake?

            Tonight.

 

Elijah in the Walled Garden

 

It was not in the storm of driving, avoiding oncomings,

nor the change of direction (Felbrigg Hall/not Sheringham Park).

Neither was it in the loadings and packings and what to take

for a non-event, a day.

It was not in the slow start; nor even the slower-slowest start

waiting for blue pill to kick in and appear natural.

It could have been in skimpy clouds, parting blues,

the flit of birdsong beyond registering ears.

It was not that moment, parking up, walking gingerly

while holding hands, rummaging for card ID.

Neither in staff-greeting, plans to do the house;

oh, no. The walled garden in Autumn:

this non-event, this day, with endless paths to nowhere.

It was not the great border, overflowing goodness, moisture

and late blooming swinging from the chandeliers in the sky.

Nor the carefully placed pumpkins, butternut squash like marrows,

cabbages without caterpillar munchies in full view.

Neither the focal-point pond waving verbenas, decorative dragonflies

and late-blooming float-fests of water-lilies;

although we argued between zoom-lens and mobile selfies.

It was not in the dovecote, nor the chicken des-res in the orchard,

nor ‘Beware, bees at work’.

It was almost beside the arched gateway, ‘Look, a honeybee,

‘Oh, I mean, lots of honeybees.’

‘Passionflowers, dear, definitely honeybees.’

Neither was it later, much later, buffeted at sandwich-tables,

opening picnic basket; pouring coffee.   

Dappled sunshine shivering the last of our resistance.

No still, small voice among the plants for sale (NT prices),

to take home a Garden of Eden, or apple from the espaliered,

‘There’s an apple, dear,’

‘No, lots of apples.’

It was a dead-end in the walled garden, ‘Stumpery!’

‘Or fernery, just look…’

Zooming, angling, watching dappled light descend through tree

to stillness. Silence. A monolith of beautiful words, framed.

‘Ah, that’s a sitooterie…’

Ferns; stumps; a Scottish seat in Norfolk.

Earth, wind, fire, water, wood, stone…

Waiting for Godot in a garden.

 

Volodymyr’s Bear (Michelangelo’s David, Villanelle)

 

It’s all about the dance, not destination,

there is no better time to be a hero.

And, wearing killer heels, pure sublimation.

 

No star-crossed ballet points this conjugation:

all alone sat suited’s just a curio.

It’s all about the dance – not. Destination.

 

To genocide a people’s destitution,

a wobbly fire-fuelled craze pulled off by Nero,

and, wearing killer heels’ pure sublimation.

 

No sunflowers so proud, just dereliction

of sky-blue peace: the people in embryo.

It’s all about the dance, not destination.

 

What price is War? This teddy bear’s depiction:

abandoned (Paddington), for this Ground Zero.

And, wearing killer heels, pure sublimation.

 

One day, if Ukraine finds rejuvenation,

and music/children play birth’s scenario;

it’s all about the dance (not destination).

And, wearing killer heels? Pure sublimatIon.

 

 

Treasure Chest Gift

Child of mine, I love you dearly

And want you to know every precious moment

Gleams In the treasure chest of my heart.

I have no words that may not tarnish

When you hold them to your light;

Yet they are mine, from one who delighted

In your creation, your first breath,

Always paddling in the sea of early years,

Until you have become – yourself.

I’ve protected you, tried to understand you,

Watched you mature into your ideals.

Waited on the seashore.

My treasure chest is empty:

I wish you a heart full of dreams.

Wendy Webb - Born in the Midlands, home and family life in Norfolk. She edited Star Tips poetry magazine 2001-2021. Published in Indigo Dreams, Quantum Leap, Crystal, Envoi, Seventh Quarry) and online (Littoral Magazine, Autumn Voices, Wildfire Words, Lothlorien, Meek Colin), she was placed First in Writing Magazine’s pantoum poetry competition. She devised new poetry forms (Davidian, Magi, Palindromedary); wrote her father’s biography, ‘Bevin Boy’, and her own autobiography, ‘Whose Name Was Wit in Waterr’ (title inspired by Keats’ grave in Rome). She has attempted many traditional forms and free verse. Favourite poets: Dylan Thomas, Gerard Manley Hopkins, John Burnside, John Betjeman, the Romantic Poets (especially Wordsworth), George Herbert, William Blake, Emily Dickinson, Mary Webb, Norman Bissett, William Shakespeare, the Bible, and the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.