Sue Spiers

I Imagine You

I see you running in the playground,
skipping with other girls.
The green gingham frock
flying as you turn cartwheels,
hair in pigtails. I stroke
back the fringe from your forehead.

I see you loading your mini
crammed with folders, lap-top,
crumpled jeans and sweatshirts,
the bumper-sticker for that noisy band,
your wave, my panic.
Call me when you arrive,
learn lots of things.

St John’s church is filled with roses.
You hesitate, take a breath and walk.
I smile at you, adjust your veil,
throw confetti – you scowl
because most of it lands
between your breasts.

You turn dark curls to the pillow.
I’ve no words of comfort to make you feel
forgiven, no pills for the ache of loss.

It’s no comfort to me
you will never know reality.

Sue Spiers has been published in Dream Catcher, Eye Flash, The Interpreter’s House and Under The Radar and on-line at The Lake and Ink, sweat and Tears. Her first collection is called Jiggle Sac and she is SIG Sec for British Mensa Poetry and treasurer for Winchester Poetry Festival.

Bibhu Padhi

A Picture of Late Winter

Clouds move towards
the west in a flight
towards rest and sleep.

Somewhere, a prayer
issues from a deserted voice.

All of those who have
forgotten their sleep

in course of centuries,
over vast continents
of dreams, are awake

to listen to the night sounds,
feel an old wound perspiring
in spite of blessings and winter.

Birds re-locate their homes
even as we spell their names.

Bibhu Padhi is an Indian poet and writer. He writes in English and Oriya languages. He is also a literary critic and translator. He has written several books. Padhi joined Ravenshaw College’s (now Ravneshaw University and where he was educated) Department of English in 1974 and was teaching there until 1981 and later from 1985 to 1992. He was also Counsellor for Odisha branch of the Open University (IGNOU). He has 11 volumes of poems written in English.

Marc Woodward

Daffodils

There were guards on the bridge spanning the Oder,
Slubice, the other East Germany.
They smiled at my mother and called to her
to have a cigarette, pass a little time.
She laughed, gently declined and we walked on
along the bank to where the daffodils grew wild.
My mother let go of my hand so she could pick
and I could run. As I ran I would bless
the swaying daffodil blooms with my small palms.
I’ve never felt so free again.
Back on the bridge
a guard whistled. Beside us the steady river
wound away my mother’s cares.
Now every Spring
I come to England to work in the fields
picking daffodils. I wear gloves and mostly
don’t recall how those bobbing yellow heads
brushed my hands.
Mostly I just bend and pick,
determined and quick, moving from row to row.
But sometimes I drink and think then of that border town
and the Oder, quietly unwinding, grey and slow,
the whistling guard and the small daffodils of home.

Marc Woodward is a poet and musician living in the English West Country – an environment much in evidence in his writing. He has been widely published in journals and anthologies. Recent collections include A Fright of Jays (Maquette Press 2015), and Hide Songs (Green Bottle Press 2018). He was recently awarded a writing residency at The Wellstone Center in The Redwoods, Santa Cruz, CA., and his poem ‘Luigi’s Calendar’ was shortlisted for the 2018 Bridport Prize.