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one of 50 poems originally commissioned as a poster poem for Poems For the Waiting Room, Hyphen-21
To make her magic
It was strangely hot, the ash tree gasped in dust as we approached, dark-bud twigs cracking the sky.
All my life a Luddite but glad to wait beside you in that room— Pacific blue, antechamber to miracles.
Your grandparents put trust in herbs. I made ritual, sent healing energies, secretly enjoyed being called witch
and this sense of filaments stretched like Indra's Web from life to life. The embryologist would make her magic next.
This morning I wait alone, dry-lipped, the telephone a magnet. I have touched this child, know she exists. Creature on the edge of skin.
Joan Poulson
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poetry favourites:
and in
the
shop
... "Dear
Ms", "Pictures
in My Mind", "earth-being", "Sling a Jammy Doughnut" (ed), picture-book
poetry anthology, "The Land Songs",
joint pamphlet, |
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