Vona Groarke Poems

In the window of the drawing-room
there is a rush of white as you pass
in which the figure of your husband is,
...

My mother has gone and bought herself a piglet
because none of us comes to visit anymore.
George has good manners and is clean in his ways:
he is courtly, thoughtful, easy to amuse.
...

has to do with Max and Nemo
scarcely out of their plastic bag three weeks ago
and into our new fishbowl
when Nemo started swelling up,
...

Three bars of shadow on a yellow road,
a sky of Chinese blue.
Though there is only the road
and its sidelong songs
...

I sat in a garden of medieval wildflowers
and let the sun insist upon my face.
There was a city at my back
with the kind of light at play
...

The children will be waiting for me
with blue veined arms and all tomorrow
slaked in the whites of their eyes.
...

I babysit by Skype,
breakfast to their lunch,
lunch to their dinner.
...

Thistledown, fuchsia, flagstone floor:
this noun house has the wherewithal
to sit out centuries
...

The wind orchestrates
its theme of loneliness
and the rain
has too much glitter in it, yes.
...

"Are they real?" We have pages of kitchen utensils and books
and candlesticks and nibs, but the charcoal pencil and new sketchpad
are squat as aubergines in her hands in front of this display.
...