The falling blossoms of cherry
have scattered the Vicarage lawn,
white amongst the new green grass
like snow or confetti
from an early wedding.
Looking out from the scullery window
the vicar’s wife sees a blackbird
stabbing at something invisible
in the grass with swift plunges
of its bright orange beak.
She reaches for the scarlet tea towel,
dries the washing up froth
from her hands. The white
porcelain gleams in the drainer
catching the sun.
She tries to remember a poem
about being in England
but her head is full of Spanish
this morning, awakening as she did
to news of the president’s defeat.
She crosses herself, utters a silent prayer
for peace, for Venezula
for the sisters she left behind.
’Browning’, she remembers the name
but the details of the poem elude her.
Caroline M. Davies was born in Norfolk to Welsh parents and her childhood was spent moving between East Anglia and Anglesey. She started taking poetry seriously in 2004. Her poems have won prizes in a number of competitions and have been widely published in magazines and anthologies in Britain. She lives with her husband and two small sons in a village in Buckinghamshire.
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8 Responses to “HOME THOUGHTS • by Caroline M. Davies”
Comments
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January 31st, 2009 at 2:53 am
Lovely, very evocative.
January 31st, 2009 at 7:07 am
Re: “Home Thoughts”
Nice precis for a story, but why do you call it a poem?
Why are so many stories written about other-language foreign countries to disguise where it’s really happening?
January 31st, 2009 at 8:17 am
Visual–good voice and flow.
–dj
February 1st, 2009 at 5:34 am
I just love the images here, Caroline. My mind was filled with perfect pictures, then it was challenged to read again so that I understood even more.
February 1st, 2009 at 9:43 pm
This is truely beautiful. Well written poem. Thanks.
February 2nd, 2009 at 8:20 am
Thanks for all the comments. I was glad most people liked it.
February 2nd, 2009 at 8:46 am
Subtle poem. I love the way you’ve used colour.
February 8th, 2009 at 11:27 am
I liked the way you’ve dripped in back story which turns out to be the point of the poem: that the vicar’s wife is an exile from her own homeland, and the glorious cherry blossom that we English enjoy so much just doesn’t have the fire she misses from home. No ordinary vicar’s wife would have a scarlet tea towel …