Swift Display

     (Frampton Marsh in May)
 
Pale blue sky, drifting clouds,
sinking sun, mirrored in wetland,
glinting on quivering reedbeds .
 
You chose that moment,
that very spot – to appear,
to dodge around us – to shoot,
 
to swoop and skim the water,
twenty, thirty, forty, fifty of you –
with high-pitched piercing calls,
 
wide-spread sickle wings
millimetres from our cheeks
stirring strands of hair, goosepimples,
 
sharp intakes of breath. Each time
we return to that spot our eyes meet,
we smile, no words – just scan the sky.
 

Marion Ashton

published in The Dawntreader, 2021

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Pink Poppies

The two nurses have just left.
He needs a rest, so we don’t disturb.
I peep into the sick-room and see
his reduced body propped in pillows,
that grey face, the tubing and machines.
 
In your sunroom we drink coffee
and try to eat the cake I brought.
Outside the maple is too red,
the sky too blue. Before I leave
you give me poppy seedlings,
 
six delicate-leaved, tiny plants,
like cress in a biodegradable pot.
They should be pink blooms you say,
big-headed, self-seeding.
I’m watching them now, re-potted,
 
fed and watered, out of the draught
on the windowsill, their stems
inclining towards the morning sun.
 

Marion Ashton

published in Dream Catcher, 44, 2022

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Deeping Locks’ Pheromone

She squeezes
through the kissing-gate,
stuck fast in long grass –
only the lithe can get in,
climbs down the bank:
 
wet hedges, dog-rose,
civet scent of wild garlic,
rampant bindweed tangle –
round the bend
to the cascade’s din,
catching the pheromone
of eel and stickleback.
 
Here the Welland
picks up pace,
drops headlong
over the ledge
in a crash of foam.
 
She watches the boys
balance high on the edge
of the lock-gate,
jack-knife and dive,
down into dark waters,
slippery as otters.
 
She wades out
from the shallows –
felt of wet fern
between the toes,
sparks of minnows
across white thighs –
and slides under.
 

Marion Ashton

published in Reach Poetry, Indigo Dreams, 2021

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Abu Dhabi Airport’s Shock of Yellow

He watches her progress
   down the long escalator
   to the marbled Departure Lounge.
 
He can tell it’s a young body
   beneath the head-to-toe black
      of burqa – jilbab and veil:
 
it’s in the upright bearing,
   the backward toss of the head,
      the clear brown eyes, scanning
 
the hall with unveiled disdain:
   unsettling how they’re framed
      in that narrow, peep-show slit.
 
A gust of cool air blows
   the long cloak apart,
      revealing a shock of yellow
 
leather mini-skirt, stretched tight
   across smooth, bare thighs.
      She appraises him, unblinking:
 
American businessman – oil,
   most likely – forties, crisp blue shirt,
      sharp-creased Chinos, cell-phone,
 
laptop, gold watch, wedding ring –
   red-faced. They both know
      this image will stay with him forever.
 

Marion Ashton

published in Ambit Poetry, 2009

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