Vicki Thornton
　

No Black For Monet

beneath this foreign northern sun
we wander the cobbled lanes
of Giverny
buy Spanish oranges and Dutch cheese
from a girlchild on roller skates

we sit in Monet’s garden
while bumble bees
drone like Volkswagens
and try to capture this moment
create an impression
with digital clarity
amongst his palette of pure light

gardens of scorched orange day lilies
roses bursting in salmon pink
cadmium yellow pansies
and cobalt blue Canterbury bells
where black is forbidden
and shadows are merely
the darkest of purples

-previously published in Fly Magazine
　

A Storm At Bay

Clouds rain in from the south, tumble and swirl
reducing the sun to mere memory. Blue-green sea
dissolves to gull-grey while dancing white crests
become frenzied, tossed with salt licked winds.
Corrugated tides tear at the foam spewed breakwater
lash at moored boats that pull at their tethers
aching to be free. Men rush with sand stung skin
squint through the rain beanied heads bent
to claim what’s theirs. Clawed hands
frozen and numb pull at ropes
grapple with the wind as cray pots
skate across watered decks. Stinging rain sweeps
across the bay etching out passageway.
Waves slap the rocks wind cuts through the pines
the world disappears into a monotone mosaic
of sound and vision.

-previously published at PV Review


Louisa May

You were a silent woman
kept a silent house
we intruded
with heavy footsteps
down linoleumed halls
our voices piercing
your stillness.
I remember the picture
of Jesus and his
bleeding heart
the rosary that swayed
above your bed
each time we ran past your room.
The vulnerable pink skin
beneath the white hair
you tumbled into a bun
bleached blue eyes
and lips pursed
in continual disapproval.
Yet at your knitting
there was a beauty
a rhythm
to the pull of yarn
round and over
under and through
the tug of wool
on needle
your hands creating a grace
I never knew existed
in you before.
After
when they asked what of yours
I would like as a memento
I chose your needles.
Tortoiseshell.
I can’t use them
never being as silent
as you were.

-previously published in Land Lines: Anthology of Regional Poets
　

Bliss

is five foot seven
achingly thin
strawberry plump lips and mirror eyes.
She keeps her dreams
in a mahogany chest
by the bed
and casts her thoughts
as easily as dealing cards.
She lives in a palace
of crystal promises
all too aware
of their sharp intent.
At night the mattress
dips and sways beneath her
as her husband’s paws
land on breast and thigh.
Snuffling kisses down her neck
begin his dance of love
his quickstep.

After
as she listens
to his deep breath
turnings of a snore
she decides that happiness
is a state
like Queensland
overrated
and too expensive to live in.

-previously published in Divan