Poetry

THE CRUISE SHIPS

They arrived in August, bringing a touch of glamour

and disbelief to the summer season:

two sleeping giants suddenly on the horizon.

We were amazed and baffled by their presence.

They were redundant, we were told, but still performed

manoeuvres daily with a skeleton crew.

Tour boats, like lilliputians, laid on special trips

to see them towering above,

their many decks rose up like beanstalks in a fairy tale.

Another ship arrived and soon their numbers grew.

All through September cruise ships came and went

like lovers’ quarrels, some sulking out at sea

while others guarded jealously the cliffs

of Babbacombe and Teignmouth and Torbay.

At night they were spectacular,

ghost ships lit up like giants’ palaces,

their lights shone through our darkness

as the nights drew in.

One day there will be passengers again

and they’ll return to more exotic destinations.

When the pandemic ends.

But until then, perhaps they will watch over us.

Jennifer Keevill

CARTOON

  Home from hospital with a new hip –

with Arnica Montana on my bruises and swellings –

I sleep fitfully….

It is noon in the village:  I recognise the place

by its various gables and chimneys,

by the pinks of its paving stones.

The hurdy-gurdy resounds before I observe it:

gliding into view is a childhood float

complete with its cartoon cast.

A plastic rabbit with an oval face

and a pompous voice

climbs high above the rest.

I feel so uneasy about this buck

that I cannot speak.  Half awake by now,

I register the pain in my bones:

how it throbs in time to the music.

At regular intervals, the buck’s head sinks

into the huge, blueing dewlap –

only to emerge with a sickening judder….

I try to wake fully but am led towards a dwarf cottage

where the cartoon menagerie waits for its feast.

I listen to the woman with the ebony hair

that sticks out from her temples.

She resembles one of those monochrome gables –

is entirely unaware that I will occupy her psyche….

The music stops: the rabbit responds with a fattened yawn.

My pain gone, I anticipate nothing but food.

A straw man limps past.

I glance out of the lattice window

in time to see the raven poised on a gatepost.

A clock strikes.  I am brought back to the otherlife,

knowing that my keywords – little, and slow –

are ones that I like.

Jenny Johnson

First published in Anthology of Poems for GreenSpirits

Jenny Johnson is  a published poet who loves sharing her work with an audience and is interested in taking part in charity events as well as those where payment is possible. Please see her website - www.jennyjohnsondancerpoet.net - for a sample of her poetry.