Forty, Or Maybe Eighty, Winks

Forty, Or Maybe Eighty, Winks long poem

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Speckled drifting ochre and sienna, sunshine yellow
Shifting and blurring edges of scarlet, dozing again
The sky blanched through the pink skin of my eyelid

Tapping branch of a tree against the arbour
Resonates, vibrates, excites the molecules of the wood
Living foliage sap-filled and sawmill planks shanked

Tottering on the boundary of spice and rosemary
Herbs compete within my flaring, un-flaring nostrils deep,
Curry plant dominates subtle chive, and basil, but

With late flourish mint and spearmint take flight
Bouncing on the breeze, joyful in clarity and scent
Tip of the tongue taste bud taint making teeth fur

Wisp of cloud deepens, coagulates into a sense of black
The floaters no longer sail the sea across my irises
Eyes still closed I feel the tinge of night in mid-winter day

Cold now, a chill wind slithers and cuts rather than caressing
Rather than warming the proud thrust of my chin or the
Fine round ridge of my cheek, a touch of frost on lips

‘Tis hanging in the air, the snow anticipatory
Soon, will the toboggan be de-webbed and its blades polished?
Will children’s laughter echo through valley and glen?

Faces now play and dance across my memory, mine at eight years
My brother at five, our Alsatian, all fur and all protection
Wouldn’t say boo to the geese wintering nearby

Parents holding hands, kissing, cuddling and smiling proud
Sharing the thought “Look at what we’ve done”
As we add coal and carrot and hat to our icy creations

Scratch, scrap, then tap, the branch of the olive removes me
The present, this bench and within my house so close
Water reaching the boil and tea about to be brewed

I clip and pluck the herbs and place in a wicker basket
I drink in the warmth of the afternoon sun and hear
The crackle of the fire as the charcoal and block are stoked

Words drop from her lips so fair “Too cold out there”
She stands at the doorway, thin pyjamas ‘neath a dressing gown
The promise of tea and hot buttered toast in her smile

This poem is part of the Poetry Book Keep On Keepin’ On

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Trevor Maynard

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Trevor Maynard (1963) was born in Southend-on-Sea, Essex, England. He is the editor of The Poetic Bond series including THE POETIC BOND, THE POETIC BOND II, THE POETIC BOND III and THE POETIC BOND IV. Trevor's new poetry collection KEEP ON KEEPIN' ON is now available. He read Theatre Studies and Dramatic Art at Royal Holloway College and has worked for ten years in the theater, writing, directing and producing. Trevor is married to Jo and has four kids, six grandchildren, as well as a cat. Other works include FOUR TRUTHS (2010), a collection of four one act plays, and two single plays, GLASS and FROM PILLOW TO POST.
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3 Comments on "Forty, Or Maybe Eighty, Winks"

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Laya Sarath

Loved it 🙂

Savi Mani

wonderful poem, read and then re-read it and felt it……..liked it


Little intricacies of every day life so beautifully put across..nice:)


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