Author Archives: Barbara Lawton

Troubadour, but not the piping boy Strolling mediaeval landscapes, Or a vibrant dancer, Seductive with scarves and flares, At rustic fairs. This minstrel stalks a different tradition, Born not of romance but of aged necessity, Her pitch cruelly reduced to … Continue reading →

An hour before dinner, grey churning clouds assembled At the top of the lake and merged testily, Like cavalry waiting to charge. They filled the space, swallowed the strident rockface, Blanked the waterside villages below. Waiters hurried to strip their … Continue reading →

For this poem, I used the title of a poem by May Swenson (1913-1988), a US poet of Swedish descent. Single worm, now multiplying daily in a dense green plastic dome of kitchen waste,, devouring vegetation, feeding on the sweat … Continue reading →

          Defying its heaviness, the circle face defaults to a water lily in her withering hand, a sudden reminder of her father’s pond trickles forward from childhood. Through a case of metal and rust, she’s floating … Continue reading →