One Poem by Malcolm North

 

THE ENT’S DEATH 

 

 

Roots that wandered far and near 

whither now in autumn’s air. 

He finally sheds his leafy wear, 

and so he lies,  

silent and bare. 

 

Each fallen leaf floats like a feather, 

with wistful thoughts  

of fields of heather 

and brooks that bound him like a tether. 

He remembers rains, 

and winds, and weather. 

 

Deep within his ligneous hold, 

rest sylvan stories he once told. 

Their secret words in rings enfold 

a rotting form,  

leafless and cold. 

 

Now asleep in mossy bed, 

he dreams of stars above his head, 

recalls the days he once stood tall, 

laments his end, his fateful fall. 

For time has come 

for him, like all.

Malcom North lives on the east coast of the U.S. and enjoys reading and writing fantasy literature. He has previously published in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.

 

One Poem by Daphne Wilson

 

The Cherry Tree.  

(For Iryna) 

 

Somewhere there is a cherry tree  

shedding blooms in the soft March day,  

drifting onto a carpet, lying below.  

But do not be deceived -  

for under this carpet  

is a seeping pit of deep, deep sorrow.  

 

What lies beneath? Do not ask.  

A mother’s sorrow -  

a mother’s deep, deep sorrow  

has put one there.  

It is no pyramid or mausoleum. No.  

It’s the best she could do -  

(the best that ever was),  

for her own hands did it.  

 

And now the tree  

blesses him, blesses her.  

But here’s the saddest part of all.  

There is no cherry tree.  

I imagined it to beautify the place  

and soothe my own soul.  

But all the rest is real -  

the carpet,  

the grave,  

the deep, deep 

Sorrow.

 

Daphne Wilson is an emerging writer from Belfast. She has had poems published in Causeway Magazine which features writing in both Gaelic and English, from Ireland and Scotland, by Lothlorien Poetry and Worktown Words. Much of her poetry examines themes of change in the natural landscape, the world and in her own life. 

VISITING LARA - (A Crown of Seven Sonnets) by Patrick B. Osada

 

VISITING LARA

                                                      

(A Crown of Sonnets) 

 

It was love that got him up each morning 

to catch the local train that went to town. 

Walking, heavy rain came without warning 

a mile and a half across The Downs. 

Mike was on his way to his wife’s Care Home — 

the daily visits he made rain or shine; 

he had lost her to dementia syndrome — 

her failing memory was an early sign. 

A lift or help from kids was not expected, 

Mike felt a burden to them, everyone — 

feeling in the way — family life seemed dead — 

he couldn’t wait until the day was done. 

With rain in his eyes, whilst cursing his luck, 

crossing the road, Mike was hit by a truck.

 

 

Crossing the road, Mike was hit by a truck — 

leg badly broken, heavily concussed. 

An ambulance stopping his only luck… 

When his kids were informed, they seemed unfussed. 

Visiting hospital later that day 

daughter and sons soon arrived at his room; 

finding Mike sleeping they went on their way, 

leaving a note saying, “Back again soon.” 

They did come back, but it took them a week –  

once Mike was conscious and moved to a ward; 

still in pain — it was difficult to speak, 

but having them there seemed like a reward. 

“Have you seen Mum?” he was able to ask, 

their callous indifference made Mike gasp.

 

 

Their callous indifference made Mike gasp: 

“She’s out of it now,” his youngest son said, 

“I know it’s hard, impossible to grasp, 

but she’s not living, she’s as good as dead.” 

“She doesn’t know who her visitors are, 

there’s no conversation, she looks so blank… 

Saying our names doesn’t get us far— 

‘Mum, It’s Sharon!’ — I could call myself Frank!” 

The eldest son showed a little more tact: 

“Dad, it’s upsetting, there’s no magic key — 

no way to help her and that’s a sad fact — 

trapped in her body, I wish she was free” … 

This discussion only made matters worse, 

Mike’s headache started, so they called a nurse. 

 

 

Mike’s headache started, so they called a nurse, 

the family departed, left Mike to rest… 

This sad encounter just made him feel worse, 

he thought of his wife, but it made him depressed. 

Stuck on the ward feeling very alone 

his slow healing leg gave nothing but strife, 

it seemed so pointless to call the Care Home, 

he needed to see and talk to his wife. 

“Out of it now!” — That was cruel and so wrong, 

his kids knew nothing, didn’t understand 

how commitment and love forms such a strong bond — 

he still felt a spark each time they held hands. 

Though Lara was silent — she’d lost her tongue — 

Mike still remembered her as being young.

 

 

Mike still remembered her as being young, 

so, changing his mind he phoned the Care Home — 

had to hang on as the phone rung and rung, 

left his message with a Mrs. Jerome. 

He told of his mishap, hospital stay, 

the traction, treatment and weeks of bed rest; 

“Tell Lara I love her, I’ll be OK — 

physio soon, getting up, getting dressed.” 

Discharged with Carers to help him at home, 

Mike left in a taxi, armed with a crutch. 

Back in the routine of living alone 

had groceries delivered — didn’t need much. 

He’d visit Lara as soon as he could — 

ending his long wait would make Mike feel good.

 

 

Ending his long wait would make Mike feel good, 

with nervous excitement, Mike briefly shook. 

Waiting by the gate, in sunshine Mike stood 

with flowers to deliver and taxi booked. 

The journey to town — a much quicker way 

than Mike’s walking route, to catch that slow train… 

the previous visits took most of a day — 

the time he could save would be a big gain.  

The trip was over in no time at all, 

booked in at Reception, then up the stairs 

to Room 16 at the end of the hall 

to sit by the bed in an old armchair. 

Lara was sleeping when Mike first sat down… 

Dreaming? Perhaps — first a smile, then a frown. 

 

 

Dreaming? Perhaps — first a smile, then a frown. 

Mike called her name softly, reached for her hand 

buried beneath that cerise dressing gown. 

To reach properly he was forced to stand 

and, so, leaning forward he kissed her lips. 

Freed from her dream she spoke, “Oh! Mike!” she cried. 

Hearing her speaking was such a big lift 

as if, briefly, dementia had died. 

Waking, she smiled at him but said no more. 

He talked about hospital, time that they’d lost, 

how he would visit her just like before — 

that his accident had come at great cost… 

Yet, no matter what else fortune may bring, 

it was their love got him up each morning.

Patrick B. Osada retired as Reviews Editor for SOUTH Poetry Magazine. He has published eight collections, The Warfield Poems was launched in JULY 2024. Patrick’s work has been broadcast on national and local radio and widely published in magazines, anthologies and on the internet...

www.poetry-patrickosada.co.uk