home> poets> Susan Jordan poems
 
 

about Susan Jordan       back to Susan’s page           Members’ Events Listing       Shop Online
 
last update: 27th Jan24

 

 

I never think dark will come                      Angel

 

Come with me                      The last parent

 

I never think dark will come

all I am is pulse and heave
waves altered each moment by light
 
day is slow to warm me
 
I know the sun’s wide road
only when my surface tingles
with glitter points that flash and spark
 
deep down I am always dark
 
clouds shade me through green and beyond
their arrows of rain darken me before night
I lose the sun without finding the moon
 
the fade of day covers me with grey gauze
I bask in the sweet fire that lingers over me
 
sometimes light slopes away in secret
stealing my warmth   blinding me to myself
till all I know is my own movement
 
I never think light will return
 

Susan Jordan

published in I never think dark will come, 2021, Oversteps Books,
ISBN 978-1-906856-89-2


 
back to top

 

Angel

The other day an angel
wrapped soft grey wings around me,
feather-tips touching my heart.
 
I hadn’t expected it to visit. It said
it had come to stay, and smiled
the way I hoped an angel would smile.
 
I leaned back against it, cushioned
from the shock of being human.
My naked skin felt its own feathers.
I remembered I could fly.
 

Susan Jordan

published in I never think dark will come, 2021, Oversteps Books,
ISBN 978-1-906856-89-2


 
back to top

 

Come with me

and I’ll take you to places that weren’t
until there were the two of us,
streets that turn to shingle underfoot
where the sound of cars becomes surf
 
before we’ve even reached the wave,
green hills that part in a rush of sea,
seals eyeing us as they flop
over kelp that a moment ago was grass.
 
We’ll see sheep turn to clouds and lift
high in the air, gulls alight below them
in a descent of sky that washes us with blue
so we don’t know whether to walk or swim.
 
We’ll meet sunrise where the sun sets again
so fast it leaves us all the dark we need
for finding one another, sunsets that last days
so we can taste each colour of their light,
 
rain that falls into our mouths as sweet
and nourishing as fruit, storms that shake us
free of the people we thought we were
and set us down again beside ourselves.
 

Susan Jordan

published in A House of Empty Rooms, 2017, Indigo Dreams Publications, ISBN 978-1-9108345-6-5


 
back to top

 

The last parent

Your ashes sat at the crematorium
waiting for your niece and nephew
to come and lay them to proper rest
with your sister’s, beside the rose tree.
 
You, our third parent, didn’t deserve
this dereliction. I’d left you there alone,
trying to forget what I had to do for you,
held captive by my brother’s silence.
 
I made myself fix a date. In the black jacket
and silk blouse I’d worn to your funeral
I stood by myself on the kindly grass
as Hebrew words fluttered in the soft wind –
 
the rabbi sang nearly as well as you.
I remembered your laugh, your bright colours,
your astounding lack of tact, your simple love.
I wished I could have given you back more.
 
The singing stopped. I knelt on the ground,
head bowed, mourning the family we once were.
The rabbi hovered; I asked him to go. I stayed
beside the rose tree, hoping you’d like it there.
 

Susan Jordan

published in Last of the Line, 2021, Maytree Press,
ISBN 978-1-913508-21-0


 
back to top