Biography of Mary Spain
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Mary Spain's Works:
An Ever Fixed Mark
The Moment's Gold
A Quickening Joy
Between The Lines
Mary Spain Poems
A Deaf Musician
As though a deaf musician, I am part Of some great orchestra I cannot hear. The only notes that fall upon my ear Are those which rise unbidden from the heart
Were I allowed a single word each day Perhaps I'd value it. I'd give it thought And speak it slowly, as a child is taught To do. And then, who knows, each word might say
An Early Night
He said he'd ring as soon as he returned. At nine, indulgent of her eagerness, She settled down with joy to wait and turned Her chair to face the 'phone. At ten the stress
The day I could no longer walk with ease Beneath the table, made it clear to me That I was growing. Soon my parents' knees Were way below my eye-line. I could see
I'M Sitting Here...
I'm sitting here and you are sitting there, You're telling me what's happened since we met, And I am happy for I love to share All aspects of your busy life. And yet -
A sea of living crimson caught my eye Of oriental splendour, out of place Beneath the pastel of an English sky Where soft-toned pastures etch the tranquil face
At times it feels as though I'm trapped below The slatted floor of heaven. Fleetingly, I glimpse an angel's foot, or what might be The shadow of a trailing wing, and know
How Thomas Felt
I know how Thomas felt; although he saw Their shining faces telling him what they Had seen, for him it could be nothing more Than second-hand experience: the way
My home for fourteen years, but, in your eyes, It's termed a saleable commodity. Absurd to feel defensive, but it's me You're wounding when you pause to criticise
The Phoenix Needs The Ashes
An organism crumbles from the core And we, who dance on the circumference, Stick paper on the cracks in the pretence That they will disappear if we ignore
On Summer afternoons, from two to four, The sunshine's probing fingers gently trace A passage 'twixt the city roofs to pour In fullness on a basement dwelling place.
Homes Or Gardens?
I'm sure they would be happier outside; You're sure they would give greater joy indoors. I'm certain they would take far greater pride In brightening the earth; you plead the cause
'An angel never wriggles, sulks or talks, ' The small boys' harassed teacher told her class; Then marked out on the floor with coloured chalks Where each of them should stand. 'Nor does he pass
The Prisoner's Wife
She sits there, fingering her wedding-ring With restless hands, while counsel for the Crown, Urbane and skilled, concludes his questioning. She listens, keen and anxious, quick to frown
An Early Night
He said he'd ring as soon as he returned.
At nine, indulgent of her eagerness,
She settled down with joy to wait and turned
Her chair to face the 'phone. At ten the stress
Of waiting prompted her to make some tea;
Eleven found her mind in disarray
Imagining some dire calamity
Or accident encountered on his way.
At half-past twelve... should she dial 999?