Sheena Blackhall Poems

My eldest child is dead
He left without goodbye
I'm not sound in the head
My eldest child is dead
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Today you might meet a small Scots lion
Begging to be your pet:

Or a herd of cattle munching packets of smarties
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Better buttered toast than empty bridges
A fridge in nine saves tyres
Too many Frisbees spoil the moth
It's a poor giraffe that eats midges
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My life is a shelf
On Monday, Thursday, Friday
A bus sits at one end, work at the other
In the middle's a sachet of porridge
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Late October. Twilight gathers gloom
A seated group. A table. Someone lost
Drizzling rain. An absence in the room
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A dog, shaking a cloth to shiver its timbers
A hare come in from the woods with glowing eyes
My shadow in the form of a griffin
A small excitable child crying ‘Now! Now! Now! '
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Keeping an ageing body afloat
Is baling water from a leaking boat

My bones are glass, a slip could shatter them
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The polomint dreams of being an Olympic circle
The polomint dreams of becoming a Mars Bar halo
The polmint dreams of saving a fly from drowning
The polomint dreams of becoming a thin girl's corset
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An open gate. I toddled into the lane
Followed a climbing cat
To a wall top studded with glass
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Once in a strange-think place
In a land where few folk go
And only some return from
Pictures moved in their frames
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