The Poetry Village

Robert Etty

Planes Flying Over

In my aircraft phase I’d lie on my back
in the neighbours’ dandeliony grass
(we shared a path between our gardens)
and scour skies the blues of Humbrol paint lids
for the floating delta or quick, silver cross
of a Meteor, Javelin, Canberra, Lightning,
any V-bomber or anything else
on the flightpath to or from RAF Binbrook,
which even by country bus wasn’t far.

Often in summer after a meal
my dad would come down without his jacket,
bringing some stale crust or bacon rind,
and sit on the bench against the nest box
and watch his black hens in the run.  He’d say,
‘Never mind aeroplanes – chuck some bread in,’
and break me a piece to slot through the wire,
and the hens would scuttle over and peck it,
fling it into the air and bicker.
I’d lean beside him and feel his warm shirt
and join in watching the hens.  When they’d gulped down
the bread or rind they’d go back to scratting
at the bald earth, scraping for worms or shoots
that weren’t there, stabbing between their claws.

Their squawks, clucks and warbles explained, if we
listened, the pointlessness of searching again,
and apologised, but they couldn’t help it.
I’m listening now, and they’re still explaining
how these days you need to keep doing and trying
because if you stop there’ll be nothing.
There they are, under a wide sky near Binbrook,
scratting the same few square yards.

Robert Etty lives in Lincolnshire. His latest collections are A Hook in the Milk Shed and Passing the Story Down the Line (both Shoestring Press).

Alison Jones

Repeat

They tried to conjure the night before.
Inside the house cool, brimming with aromas
of damp stone floors, polished wood, Brasso.
Outside, slanted yew, snaking branches, bright berries.

After lights out, a full moon, phosphorescent skies,
percussion that shook the whole house,
impact, metal on metal, air choreography;
clap, shock, barrage, thunder.  Silence.

In the morning, nothing there,
though they searched for precipitate fuselage;
crippled fenders; the plateau of a carcass;
any kind of augury; a simple sign, or token.

Downstairs together, wearing sleep and twisted sheets,
clasped palms raining, blood knocking a quickstep,
Eveready flashlights fumbled from dark caverns,
door chinked open. Two shadows, shocked awake;

wondering. Maybe the dead don’t really depart.
Things repeat, play out. Carry on as big as life.
Soon they moved on, sold up with well-reasoned alibis,
the successors’ innocence, a probable blessing.

Ali Jones is a teacher, music lover, and mother of three. Her work has appeared in Proletarian Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, Snakeskin Poetry, Atrium, Mother’s Milk Books, Breastfeeding Matters, Green Parent magazine and The Guardian. Her pamphlets Heartwood and Omega are forthcoming with Indigo Dreams Press in 2018.

Matthew Paul

The Steepler

a John Player League match between Surrey and Glamorgan at the BAC Ground, Byfleet, 25 July 1976

Off some military medium
portly Intikhab Alam,

erstwhile captain of Pakistan,
peremptorily entertains

in his cultured slogger way,
breathlessly tortoises

between the creases
to the beer-tent’s delight;

skies a friendly full toss
so unbelievably high,

electricity-wire high,
that it’s never coming down,

it’s never coming down,
it’s never coming down . . .

until it plummets
like a cartoon anvil

straight through the hands
of deep mid-wicket –

who’ll be beneath it
forever in his dreams –

to make a foot-wide crater
in the cow-corner dust.

Matthew’s collection, The Evening Entertainment was published by Eyewear Publishing in 2017, and he is a participant on the Poetry Business Writing School programme. Matthew is also the author of two collections of haiku and co-writer/editor of Wing Beats: British Birds in Haiku, published by Snapshot Press. He tweets @MatthewPaulPoet and blogs at https://matthewpaulpoetry.wordpress.com/.

Tim Taylor

Stone

Anvil black on purple sky
aloof, alone:
a picture
buried in forgotten time
a seed sown deep and early
tendrils creeping
binding silently
to bone, roots
put down to rock
strong but elastic
infinitely long
allowing me to roam
unhindered, unaware
of what had grown inside:
not a tether
but a safety line
that dragged me back
when I was lost
and sinking,
here, to this hill
this boulder, home.