Empty Horses

They line up around the towns;
dark faces hang over fences,
gates, stable doors.
 
They don’t turn away.
Grass grows.
 
They flick at flies,
shuffle, jostle a little.
Stay.
 
People stop looking, drivers
keep eyes ahead, windows
on trains and buses blinded
by newspapers, coats, bags.
 
Buddleia sprouts
in petrol stations. Badgers play
on motorways. Verges widen.
 
The horses toss their heads
at changing weather,
blow gently, don’t whicker
or whinny.
 
They stay in line,
creak light from their joints
as they stamp, swish tails.
 

Angela France

in pamphlet collection, Lessons in Mallemaroking, 2011, Nine Arches Press;
previously published in Agenda

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Dizzy

Grass grows a thrum
                    steady drum
beat    green green
and daisies    plink plink
here     there     over there
      dandelions yellow-blaze
syncopate crazy
                           days
              love-lies-bleeding
                   hearts twang along
                       a stem arching
over snowy mountain stars
       tulips wail from buds
     blare their passion
                                   up
                             up
                     up
 

Angela France

published in Orbis

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Prospect

     Peer into hedgerows,
part thickets and look
in their dark centres,
trail through pine woods,
kick through leaves under beech trees.
      Clear the ditches,
drag the pond, examine each tangle
of weed and scrap of metal,
use a pole to prod deep
until you know there’s nothing there.
       Check the outhouses;
move the old bikes, the mower,
the paint cans and scraps of wood.
Rake through the dusty nuggets
of coal in the corner, pull cobwebs
away from the shelves, ignore
gritty smears on your hands.
        Go home. Search the cellar,
the attic, pull out boxes from under beds,
chests from closets. Look inside.
Learn to wait.
 

Angela France

in pamphlet collection, Lessons in Mallemaroking, 2011, Nine Arches Press

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Card Sharp

Cunning, we never caught her cheating
at cards. No aces up her sleeves nor tucked
in the leg of her bloomers; no mirrors
at sneaky angles nor thumb-nailed corners.
 
Rummy in the evenings and cribbage
with the old man, used matchsticks
marching along holes on the worn board.
On Boxing day, always Newmarket,
old pennies and ha’pennies saved
for betting on the picture cards
from another pack laid out
in the centre of the drop-leaf table.
 
Calls of Nanny! You’re cheating!
made her grin or cackle
as the pennies piled up by her elbow
and her glass of stout emptied,
creamy froth making patterns
like tea-leaves for reading.
 
Remonstrations of Really, Mother!
brought winks and gurning,
her sideways twinkle at us
making sure we knew she cheated
when it didn’t matter.
 

Angela France

published in anthology, Poetic Pilgrimages, Poetry Salzburg

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