Crusty casing – buffering the ravages of time
a skeletal trunk bravely bending into the wind
with fortitude and grace
Coarse but staunch
extraordinarily ordinary,
a-peeling, papery thin arms thrusting upwards
towards languid finespun catkins
auspiciously alluring and ambitious
alpha and omega of the whole
crepuscular dappled branches
knotted, knobby ripples teeming and
budding with blossoming display
Published by Green Ink Poetry 2023
Always
Gale’s marriage was stormy, gusty, her visibility poor
a blight
hidden by chador, and bruises – gradually easing later
with ice.
His fist, imminent – never moderate
veering, cyclonic
A hoar!
Losing identity, rather quickly she moved out
rough, very rough – then phenomenal
occasionally falling, steadily rising
Gutsy now,
frost between them is predicted
forever
Published by SpillWords 2023
Homeward Bound
Standing at the Middle Eastern International Airport with my passport and ticket in my hand I can’t take for granted that I will be allowed on the plane, even now. I watch my man, who would have been better off relegated to being a one night stand, passing over the back shish with the subtlety that comes with a lifetime of practice and I am allowed to squeeze past the barrier that would make it obvious to everyone that I am too pregnant to be getting on this plane but too scared of what I have already seen in the city’s hospitals to remain.
I turn for a final goodbye, as he sweetly lies that it won’t be long until he can join me, away from his home and back with me in mine. I won’t miss forty degree heat and power cuts or the sewerage truck that comes weekly to empty the tank. Nor will I miss trying to squat over a hole and using a bucket or a shower attachment to clear up the fetid stench of Arabic indoor plumbing afterwards. I won’t miss having to make sure not to deface the despot’s photo when throwing out the newspaper or being stopped for papers when we mistakenly drive down the wrong streets, a bit too close to something nobody should know is there. I won’t miss Arabic signage, constant songs for the glorious leader on TV and sweaty people in market places with no sense of personal space. I might miss the women and their easy Valium induced smiles and ululation, having an orchard with orange trees and vines in the garden and I might, just might, miss him – my arrogant, wealthy husband.
On the plane I watch women going to the toilets, black abayas giving them the appearance of gigantic pupae, only for them to emerge after a decent interval transformed into beautiful butterflies: make up thickly glamorous; hair coiffed into shining curls and bright western clothes revealed, ready for landing. “Ready for my close up, Mr Passport Control Officer.”
I land at Heathrow and weave towards my suitcase on the carousel. It’s only at this point that I realise cash is king and I have none.
“Si adni…” I plead with the men with the glamorous wives, “Please help me…” to the ground staff but I am in no woman’s land, caught between worlds and – very temporarily- financially embarrassed but everyone fails to make eye contact, pretending they don’t understand the plea of a woman whose belly is bigger than her suitcase. As the carousel clears it dawns on me that I need to do this myself and if I go in to early labour then my child will be born in London rather than at home. I can feel the kicking inside me, egging me on like a cheerleader- “Go girl! Go girl!”
Miraculously though, it works – I have my case and my placenta intact and I waddle out of arrivals fighting the desire to crouch down and kiss the ground as if I am the Pope. Viva La Mama. Viva l’enfant!”
Published by SpillWords 2023
Ellie Ness Writes