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What the river told me by Jane Skelton

Jane Skelton’s ‘Moniave, Scotland’

from What the river told me

in a pub in Moniave
I think I’ve found my people
enveloped in a clutch of folk musicians
singing at the top of my voice

I see a thin child enter
with a wolfhound on a lead
but when she turns and looks up
I she is a little person
of wrinkled face and long straw hair
I think I’ve found my people
although I don’t understand a word
it doesn’t matter

the single malts are finished
before the stage of gutter-rolling
that night I couldn’t sleep

the next day I’m taken to Castle Douglas by car
the scenic route of winding roads at breakneck speed

he gave me a special Scottish sweet
when he said goodbye
I appreciate it later
caramel melting on my tongue
on the bus to Newton Stewart

at Moniave I thought I’d found my people
but it was only the whisky
I’ll probably never go to Moniave again

Jane Skelton’s ‘Moniave, Scotland’ Read More »

Alex Skovron’s ‘Narcissus’

from Water Music

In the end, of course, he got married
to himself. A civil ceremony, nothing too glib, a friend
or two, a reporter from The Mirror, the odd flame
from the past, a waiter with icy water:
his watery parents, a little perplexed, looking around,
confused because no engagement had been announced.

The celebrant was vague, her words left an eerie
echo, she quickly left. Nobody spoke. At last, he escorted
himself into the Bridal Suite: nervous, a little beery,
he sat there blushing on the edge of a single bed.

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Rob Shackne’s ‘Stella Fugio’

from A Chance of Seasons

there are stairs to take
and steps to consider, after all
the slender things we are
stars can wait a little longer
distance must be reached
love is met on the landing
(a demon black cat flashes
past, between our future legs)
we recognize each other
one going up the other down
we hardly have time to speak
platitudes of stairs and star
a bad day ahead of us or behind
a meeting later, always later

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What the river told me by Jane Skelton

‘hurricane’ by Jane Skelton

From What the river told me

shadows, seeking fingers, creep across the moor
as clouds roll over
a slag of suggestive, rococo cloud
reclines upon the hill’s haunches 
a pregnant Welsh pony whinnies 
hysterically into the wind 
the roosters’ chorus answers, rises from the village
the squirrels are barking
a teenage fawn hesitates on the edge of the pines 

in a cathedral in Hexham
I watch the organist practise 
trundle through a hymn 
the wind cannot be felt in here 
but trees snap, crash across the road
the smell of torn vegetation

I am stranded 

and later we hear a woman in Ireland 
was blown off a cliff in her caravan

‘hurricane’ by Jane Skelton Read More »

“Night War” by Lou Smith from Riversalt

I can hear them
like Formula One cars
on a track around my head
and on my skin the flame
of contusions like tyres
exploding on tarmac.
My left eyelid has swollen
I’ve been sucker punched
during the night-long battle.
I’m a sore loser.
I introduce aids– 
mosquito coils, aromatherapy candles,
citronella oil, the air conditioner–
but they always win.
Welts on my limbs
from bites or scratching,
mosquitoes in the bedclothes–
now that’s just cheating!
I cover my face with the bedspread
my arm out as an offering

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What the river told me by Jane Skelton

broomstick orchestra by Jane Skelton

along the lake’s edge   
our burnt limbs scratch at the sky   
rapping in the wind −   
gentle ratapan, a screek   
a soft scrunching of paper
as it passed through us   
we could only receive it −   
dreaming of water   
arms upraised in frozen dance   
amid the whirlwind of fire
our spectral voices   
sing the conflagration   
mimic the crackling   
as the wind brings the burnt reek   
the acrid recall of pain  
waves unburied our song   
our creaking cacophony   
roots deep in midden   
sand falls from shell, bone, graveyards   
old feasts uncovered, old fires
fishing boats glide past   
seabirds, on indifferent trails   
we cry from the dunes   
our terrible scribble is  
crazing the ruffled water 
the wash slaps our dune   
our every wounding, a sound   
the lake whispers back   
its silky repetition   
new growth creeps forward   
our song is nearly over   
twine us in green strength

broomstick orchestra by Jane Skelton Read More »