Forbidden fruit

The woman stands naked
but for a scarlet sunhat.
She wriggles her toes
in the warm earth, stretches
sun-baked arms, sighs.
 
A fine-tuned breeze fingers
the fruit trees, tickles
their brittle leaves, sun
touching up the orchard
with hot searching hands.
 
The man can’t believe
his luck. He loiters in
the shadows, watching,
waiting. The woman reaches
for a low-hanging branch.
 
Breasts taut, nipples proud
she selects an apple, twists
it from its twig. She cups
its weight in her hand, pulls
down the brim of her hat.
 
She sits, takes a first bite.
The man makes his move,
steps into the sunlight, folds
the woman in his arms, kisses
her, tasting the sweet juice.
 
Forgotten, the apple falls
to the ground. It’s true,
the man thinks, Red hat, no
knickers. A worm squirms
from the apple’s white core.
 

Moira Andrew

in bilingual collection (Eng/Rom), A Box of Sky, trans. Prof Dr Lidia Vianu, 2017, Integral (Bucharest), and in downloadable version, Contemporary Literature Press (Bucharest)

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Almost

I almost met you
glimpsed you across the street
looking in the window
of an antiques shop,
(typical I thought)
I stepped into the road,
an impatient horn
drawing me back
and I missed you.
 
What would I have said?
I’m happily married …
Might you have asked, Love him?
I loved him to bits, would have
told you so, but he was ill,
waiting for me to drive him
to hospital. I’d rushed out
to buy the Guardian, sandwiches
and fruit for the journey.
 
You’d have greeted me
with a kiss, long and hard
right there on High Street,
suggested coffee, a drink,
keen to catch up, to know
I was OK. Too late, no time.
You merged into the crowd.
I remembered your grey eyes,
the salty smell of you.
 
I almost met you.
 

Moira Andrew

Commended, Poetry Space Poetry Competition, 2017.

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Black dress

I had this black dress once,
an off-the-shoulder affair
that made me look sexy – or
so I thought, glimpsing myself
in the mirror. True, men
looked at me differently,
calculation in their eyes – even
my then-husband – and I felt
I had the world at my feet.
In real life I was mother, wife,
teacher and thoroughly unsexy,
but quite another woman in
that little black dress. I could
dance till two in the morning,
waltz, jive, quickstep with
the best of them. I discovered
I could fall in love again, make
a man’s eyes light up – not
my husband’s, as it happened –
the little black dress no longer
important as it slid to the floor.
 

Moira Andrew

in collection, Man in the Moon, 2014, Indigo Dreams Publishing

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Jazz hands

Making music in the night
those black winter trees
Satchmos of the forest
coax rich jazz notes
          from the wind.
 
A flock of sleek crows
writes sheet music
on leafless branches
crotchets and minims
          all in Bb.
 
Snow falls, five-finger twigs
wearing white gloves
jazz hands of the thirties,
draw rhythm and blues
          from the cold air.
 
The woods come alive
with sound, trumpet, bass,
trombone, soaring clarinet
tempting a new moon to jive
          among the stars.
 

Moira Andrew

in collection, Breakfast with Swallows, 2017, Austen Macauley

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