ROCK SALT
comes in all shapes and colours, direct from the Himalayas
on the label is the mighty range
like a ridge of toblerone
something else I bought at the airport
as I spend my retirement, jetting
from Bangkok to Naples
grounded by Covid (a temporary distraction)
I season my dishes
and pass the time on eBay
ordering t-shirts from Vietnam, sex toys from China
the weather is wonderful in Serbia, less so in the Arctic
ice clinks, melts in my gin and tonic
as I distract myself with dreams of flight
await further instructions
AN UNATTENDED FUNERAL
a magpie croaks and jabbers
as the coffin arrives
woven willow
like a pharaonic basket of supplies
for the after-life
which you didn't believe in
the church echoes
with a prayer for the dead and the dying
you lie on a rented pedestal
as planes fly low
departures from the here and now
you are off
to somewhere hot and amazing
blazing
that you were fit and frisky
one minute
and six months later you are here
whisky at the wake
family and friends sub-dividing
keeping close the secrets they’re hiding
it's all ordained (some might say)
they get in their cars and drive away
the magpie squawks for his mate
come nest with me before it's too late
THREE GLAZED BISCUITS AND A NEEDLE AND THREAD
The busy needle punctures taut cloth
tiny holes back-filled by busy binding thread.
Hot out of the oven biscuits firm up on Mother's
1960s cooling rack that I rescued from the red skip
when we sold her last home to pay late bills and rent
a bed in the new retirement hub, where she began
to bake and roughly stitch by hand, handkerchieves
coasters for the mirrored communal dining space.
Three biscuits shine with pink and white glaze
as squinting I sew on a button, her thimble clacking
for the sake of making good and mending what is worth
keeping. Crumbs and thread, three crisp bobbin bakes
as we clear her sunlit bedsit of needlework and quilts.
We have promised not to speak, as we repair all the small tears
those thick fingered attempts at sobriety, late, hollow-cheeked
tremendous as she took one long breath, tried to make things right.
GOING TO THE OPERA
I used to go with a member of the chorus (I mean we were sexual
partners) She was already up on the stage, acting up a storm and
adding colour. It was just a job to her though the tours were frolics.
Any rough old plot is better with music and when the orchestra
swells and the Marriage of Figaro really hits its straps, you stop
thinking of her starkers and forget the director’s terrible reputation
for oropharyngeal violence, as there’s enough of that entering stage
left as the Italian bass gets his solo. If it wasn’t for bad behaviour
would opera be so popular and rake in government money?
When there are crooks treading the boards like pantomime dames
we are less likely to spot crooks in the boardroom. Music falsifies
adds glamour and intrigue to some pretty sordid and indecent conduct.
At some point most of us compromise our heart and ambitions
and opera is misery made beautiful. This alone is worth the subsidy.
Gareth Writer-Davies is from Pencelli, Wales. Shortlisted for the Bridport Prize (2014, 2017, 2024)
Commended in the Prole Laureate Competition (2015 and 2021) and Prole Laureate for 2017
Commended in the Welsh Poetry Competition (2015) and Highly Commended in 2017
Winner of the Wirral Festival Poetry Competition (2023)
Runner Up, Spelt Poetry Competition (2023)
Runner Up, Mid Wales Poetry Prize (2024)
Publications
"Bodies" (2015) "Cry Baby" (2017) Indigo Dreams.
"The Lover's Pinch" (2018) “The End” (2019) “Wysg” (2022) Arenig Press
He was a Hawthornden Fellow (2019)
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