The Poets of Royal Holloway
Late. The moon in its seven haloes,
sugar-crust and frosting on ponds. The gong
for one, two into the unbroken day.
The hooting trains in dells where owls
Or slow. Dregging the pond at midnight in green
mermaid hair, a suckling thought pressed
to your breast.
Scorched toast and no milk, but there is always someone
willing to share the tear
and wear of a favourite pair of socks.
The blue of the low-lying sun on brick dust
like blusher on the brow of the hill.
Even more than the monochrome screech
– One for sorrow – of brylcreem magpies
– Two for joy –
And a hint of a glint in the uppermost turret
a kind hand feeds the tits and finches,
rears early irises by runways and runaway time.
Something with lime and salt made of cacti
that beckons bite-size glassware.
They are books downstairs that were perused
by genteel damsels in crepe lace
and tight stays. They are still here today.
Tipped up pennies ankle-deep in the squelching grass,
carding for Styrofoam bullets.
Climb any high window in the west wing
and hold a breath misting the glass,
the universe gazing in to
Tortured daughter tucked between lives
she spent her heart tokens on loves forever thrown up the wall.
Wrapped by the broken knell
beside the crumbled cunt of prospects,
in the sad industry of cold nights.
Frame her naked
vacated of heat.
Untied a vein just to watch the channels knit,
blood set down red roots in the bath water.
Let the hour climb its height before passing out.
Hooks split lips
still the kiss was thornless.
On the battle ground for the tiger star,
with forgiveness hardly known,
enough love was given, he’ll make the morning.
Still standing on her sonar,
a love not built on happy memories.
Ornaments of him assemble on every sense;
she’ll leave the room with her echoes.
Desolation is a rainy job.
Fallout came through the phone.
She’ll answer with tangled smiles,
for the rush and the crack.
Poets of Royal Holloway: Anna Milon
FALLOUT: Laurie Venters