Author Archives: Barbara Lawton

Troubadour

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

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The Gathering Storm

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

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Was Worm

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

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Holding the Pocket Watch

          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

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Anniversary Aubade

Low in the east, dawn silvers the taut canvas of a summering sky and birds, attuned to imperceptible clues, send their song soaring towards new morn. No lockdown for them: they sing where they please and travel unknown journeys without … Continue reading

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Black Swan

        Dark stranger, what prompted your sudden flight? Did dispute and rejection bring you here, Or some long tormented escape from fright? Did you choose us, or take a random steer? How long will you stay on … Continue reading

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