Sheena Blackhall Poems

It's Saturday, near midnight
You've been a month in Norway,
A country eaten by fjords with wolvine teeth.
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I was a Forces bride
In a street with a numbered name
A vow and an ache from my land of birth
And every house the same
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Beauty and the Maiden
Went walking down the Street
You'll be my own true love dear
Till spring and winter meet
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1. Seven micro-fictions

His dead face pressed against hers
Could have been snow
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Cistern and sieve emerge like changelings
In the disenfranchised wastes of rubbishdom

A Mercedes hubcap shelters from the rain
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Size matters. Man, she’s tanned,
She’s lean’s a greyhound
Except for her silicon knockers.
What’s in your handbag, honey?
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Having the presence of mind
To keep your head above water
Hanging by a thread
Between a rock and a hard place
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The little mannequin stands passive
Arms stretched out like Jesus
‘Yes mama, ' she says
Like an automaton
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Mary Queen of Scots is preparing for her TV interview
(A prime time address to the nation)
Her hair is red as the pelt of Nicola Sturgeon
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What will the weather be like today?
Why ask me? Am I the sky?

How many folk will Covid slay?
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