Janice Windle Poems

You're waiting
under the Arrivals board
in your flying black mac
(or magician's gown...
...

She is a cold veiled flame,
eyes open behind the marble gauze,
marble shrouded mouth,
arms (offering? Inviting?
...

Time trickles through us,
through and through us...

born and reborn, I am borne
...

Each time I fit a new piece
into the changing pattern of my life
I want to go to her, show it to her,
as the sullen five-year-old in my school photos
...

Three heads together bending
across the kitchen table.
In close heated air
the range pours comfort
...

[Francis Bacon's studio has been preserved in the Hugh Lane Gallery in Dublin.]

Where is he, the artist?
Here are his brushes, bristling
...

Today
the mirror from my in-laws’ house,
crowned by wrought iron
curliqued surround,
...

The bus swings round a rugged bend. Here’s Positano.
Perched under the mountains’ heavy brows,
Heaped treasure overflowing from a double bowl -
Jewels ranged on terraces, marching down
...

Writing his history of the Papacy
in Positano’s peaceful air,
the American McKnight, so Steinbeck swears,
is more Italian than the Italians,
...

'Nice day Dad! '
He sits in the conservatory,
wrapped in his tartan rug,
cats weaving round his knees,
...