Half Agony, Half Hope

Longing for Outside (Sequence)

1 Longing for Outside

My novel lays abandoned 

On the blanket I just made. 

The mug of tea that warmed my hands is stewed.

Instead, I freeze my fingers to chilblains

On ice-cube glass,

Wipe a gap on the frosty pane,

And stare, longing for outside. 

Outside is clean white snow,  

Leaves that crackle beneath boots.

I run

Past the waft of pease pudding,

The warm milk with its tiny trail of steam,

The soft-yak jumper pulled over my head,

The tinkling keys that draw back my ears,

Like a dog, 

That hears the jingle of the lead, 

And yearns 

No! I have to go. I want to.     

I pull my scarf tighter and tighter, 

Stuck on the hook of the door,

Zip up my new white coat – the ropes,

Block out the calling sirens with gloved fingers – the wax,

Jump on my boat-shoes and row. 

I want the Lewis forests and the Tolkien hills,

I want to go to Troy, if it takes me twenty years to get home. 

(2) Novel

I lay open, 

Discarded on a shelf,

Ribbon just falling off the page.

I want to tell you my story,

I want you to listen. 

I want to show you

Gleaming boats that glide 

Past waving crowds on riverbanks,

Sending metal-clad heroes to twenty-year wars.

I want you to embark. 

Listen!

To the silent forest they trek through,

The leaves that whisper under bare feet, 

The creaking wheel of a Tesco trolley 

The terrified screech of ‘Here we are’.

When they made me wet with their tears,

And told me what they couldn’t tell anyone else. 

Come back to me and listen. 

Look at me,

and not just the cover. 

I want you to love me,

But you want to tell your own story.

(3) The Blanket 

I sit discarded,

Slowly unravelling,

On a pink quilted chair.

I once knew your soft hands

As they caressed me. 

You rubbed me on your cheek,

The soft-skinned palm of a new-born

On the flushed face of its mother. 

You wanted hammocks hooked on trees that could collapse at any time. 

I wanted a house that’s just a little too warm from the fire.

I wanted a dishwasher stacked with pre-rinsed plates 

And a bed with blankets and cashmere cushions. 

You left me 

On the pink chair,

By the bookcase with the frosted lamp.

You wouldn’t take me with you. 

I didn’t want to come. 

But I’ll keep the pink chair warm 

In case you come back.