Sheila Jacob writes

Blodwen’s Bones

They parcelled up my bones,

sent them from Cheshire
to Llandudno-look, here’s
the crown of my skull,
vertebrae, rib-parings,
fragments of hips, pelvis,
a scattering of limbs.

Experts scanned and probed.
Blodwen, they wrote,
(though I never answered
to such a name) was five foot
tall, had arthritis, secondary
cancer, carried heavy weights
and farmed on the Little Orme. 

Oh, my sad bones,

no-one heard your lament
when they pinned you
under glass. 

Sing it louder, tell out my love

for mountain slopes, wide
copper skies, the dance
of rain on my hair.

Sheila Jacob writes

Holidays and Fairytales

Weston-super-Mare July 1981

Bunting waved lazily from the pier.

We met Mickie Mouse on the prom,

shook paws, posed for a photo.

By mid-week we were sea-struck,

hoarded shells, listened for its song.

We laced our ankles in foam, built

castles fit for royalty, added flags

like those over Buckingham Palace

that Wednesday in July: London

crowded, colour T.V. in our hotel,

cold buffet and champagne for lunch.

I watched the screen as Lady Diana

stepped from a glass horse-drawn coach,

wore the Spencer tiara and beaded

crinoline of ivory taffeta silk

unpicked and restitched four times.

(She’d grown thinner and thinner,

media-feted and pursued.)

But she sparkled inside St. Paul’s,

took the weight of her father’s arm

up the long aisle to the high altar,

smiled at her Prince, muffed

his name and exchanged vows.

Here is the stuff, Archbishop Runcie

declared of which fairy tales are made.

The Royal Wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana -- Felix Topolski

Sheila Jacob writes

In their element

Flowers are back outside the gates

of Kensington Palace; a sea of flowers,

tabloids say, like the sea of tributes

twenty years ago when bouquets

sprawled one on top of the other

like broken- necked birds.

This wasn’t the sea.

The sea was sapphire and spangled

below the Fayed’s cliff-top estate,

rocked the press men’s little boats

as Diana appeared in a leopard-print

swim-suit, dived from the high board

in a perfect golden arrow.

The sea was a wide warm dance floor

where the Jonikal waltzed, sailed Dodi

and Diana from the hub of St. Tropez.             

They relaxed on deck, compared

favourite movies, lonely childhoods,

made love to the cradling of the waves.

Innocent Victims -- Bill Mitchell

Sheila Jacob writes

In praise of the moon

 

Pale as frozen milk,

you look ready to melt

into the clouds but hours

later you outshine

the street lamps,

Jupiter below you

like a full stop.

Amen. So be it.

You’re in your heaven,

all’s well with the world

and in Mary’s month

you bloom rose-gold

above green fields,

green trees, warm nests.

Sky’s calendar

for the earth you’ll orbit

while eggs crack,

fledglings squawk,

young birds wing

across each phase

of your journey’s light.

Moon and Jupiter conjunction -- David Finlay