Wish

in the wheel of the stars
and the mow of the hay
in the blaze of amaze
at the birth of the day
 
in the whir on the wire
and the scorch of the sun
in the warm and the storm
and the world on the run
 
in the roil and the broil
of the clouds’ heaving heap
in the indigo dusk
and the drifting to sleep
 
in the flap of a wing
or the bat of an eye
the slowness of Sunday
years scampering by
 
in the damp of the drizzle
the warmth of a glove
let there ever be you
let there ever be love
 

Maggie Butt

in collection, Degrees of Twilight, 2015,
The London Magazine Editions, ISBN 978-0-9926061-5-2

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Time Travellers

The sick are well, dead smiling, old are young,
framed photos bloom on windowsills and walls,
I am a baby, arms aloft to be picked up
time zig-zags like a running man avoiding bullets.
 
Framed photos bloom on windowsills and walls
I am veiled bride, gowned graduate, new mum,
time zig-zags like a running man avoiding bullets
listen to the echoes of our laughter.
 
I am veiled bride, gowned graduate, new mum,
we are in Venice with our grown-up daughters
listen to the echoes of our laughter
I am a girl, in cotton frock with poodle-print,
 
we are in Venice with our grown-up daughters,
three straw-haired nieces squint into the sun,
I am a girl, in cotton frock with poodle-print.
Faces unwrinkle, hair turns luxuriant and brown
 
three straw-haired nieces squint into the sun,
a bunch of snowdrops, roses, autumn leaves.
Faces unwrinkle, hair turns luxuriant and brown
he’s in a de-mob suit, leaving the war behind,
 
a bunch of snowdrops, roses, autumn leaves.
Mum is a red-cross nurse, dad like a movie star
he’s in a de-mob suit, leaving the war behind
futures latent as a roll of undeveloped film.
 
Mum is a red-cross nurse, dad like a movie star
I am a baby, arms aloft to be picked up
futures latent as a roll of undeveloped film,
the sick are well, dead smiling, old are young.
 

Maggie Butt

in collection, Degrees of Twilight, 2015,
The London Magazine Editions, ISBN 978-0-9926061-5-2

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Lipstick

In war time women turn to red
swivel-up scarlet and carmine
not in solidarity with spilt blood
but as a badge of beating hearts.
 
This crimson is the shade of poets
silenced for speaking against torture,
this vermillion is art
surviving solitary confinement,
 
this cerise defies the falling bombs
the snipers taking aim at bread-queues,
this ruby’s the resilience of girls
who tango in the pale-lipped face of death.
 

Maggie Butt

in collection, Lipstick, 2007,
Greenwich Exchange, ISBN 978-1-8715519-4-5

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It’s Just

It’s just a cold, dear.
We all have colds.
the laundry flutters with our handkerchiefs
flags of surrender.
 
It’s just a cough, dear.
We all have coughs.
A thousand hacking men who bark
all night, keeping sleep at bay.
 
Do I look thin, dear?
We all look thin.
The fish is sometimes rotten
and it twists within our guts.
 
It’s just a life, dear.
We all have lives.
Some spill them in the trenches
others in a cage.
 
It’s just a war, dear.
We all have war.
 
 
 
3,000 civilian men were imprisoned at Alexandra Palace from 1915 to 1919 as ‘enemy aliens’.
 

Maggie Butt

in collection, Ally Pally Prison Camp, 2011,
Oversteps Books, ISBN 978-1-9068562-1-2

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