from previous issues  of Southlight

Cutting Fodder in Afghanistan

Butterfly bright,

in riotous rose-patterned frocks,

hunkered down all afternoon,

amongst milk-white clover,

purple vetch and pink shaftal –

with its heady, sugar-almond scent –

three women, with careless rhythmic ease

slice swathes of fodder.

Voices drifting

on pollen-laden air

dissect their world’s events –

will Miriam’s baby be here for Eid?

the calf born last week,

crickets eating Moosa’s wheat,

and who caused Basma to hide her smile,

yesterday at the well?

Sweat runs ignored

down dirt-streaked faces,

arms ache for rest

but no one stops till

heavy creels flow over.

Each helps the other hoist her load,

rise to her feet.

They move away spines straight, shoulders back –

reluctant queens –

heads forced high by leather straps.

 Mary Smith in Southlight 12

'Italy'   Dave Osboune in Southlight 12

The Minister’s Pool

It wasn’t just the downhill run,

flung flying along the wooded path,

that pulled us to the river every summer

as soon as the trees wore soft green,

wild garlic flowered, the sky as blue as mattered.

The water shocking, but survivable with many tries,

or one brave plunge.

It wasn’t just the life-thick cold current that tugged us,

kept trying to drag us to the pool

across the shallows

from our chest-deep swimming place.

The safe place, where soft weed and slippy algae

cushioned stones for our timid feet

that curious minnows nibbled, tickled.

The edge was never far.

It wasn’t just the lurking corner whirlpool of local lore

that scared the swimming power right out of  me,

the pool’s depth renowned, greater with every telling.

The cold like a spell to pull me fish-deep,

as I gasped and fought to keep the surface,

the dark concealing primal fears, unspeakable

but with a stronger lure than adults’ warnings

could hold me from.

It wasn’t just its safety

that drew you to the sandstone ledge you’d reach

if you dared to cross and push and pull

yourself right out the sucking water

into the shadow of the massive, ancient,

overhanging beech tree, to seek a warm spot.

Exhausted, weed-specked,

heavy as a new-born.

Katy Ewing in Southlight 12

Road across the Caldbeck Fells       Geraldine Green

Owl, Borrowdale

Bright feathers

    become breath

talons dig

    into flesh

at midnight its call

imprints dreams

mist prowls downriver

    enters open-mouth valley

    dawnscream of owl kill

you enter I shudder.

Geraldine Green

Southlight 11

Once A Doll

She was sewn just so, graceful and fluid.

Sateen ribbons adorned her dainty feet

but the bindings made dancing difficult.

The doll unwrapped her feet, and the feet changed

she moved less gracefully now, quicker

The doll wished to lament but had no voice

she found the scissors and cut a gash

across her faultless mouth  

still no lament

for no tongue

had been given her

The doll sought issue who would speak for her

she unpicked the sewn-shut gash

that she might bleed and birth

but she had no issue

some damage irrevocable

Dismayed, the doll cut two wounds in her chest

found the kapok, and stuffed herself

found the thread and sewed new chest in place

then coated her cotton skin in golden beeswax

to smooth herself and become good doll once more.

But the wax cracked

and the doll cried

and the doll leaked fluid for the first time

she followed tears

to a stream to the river to the sea

Only then did she find

sister dolls

that might repair her

JoAnne McKay

Southlight  10

                                     Cynthia's Flower                                              Sarah Zillwood

                                                                                                                              Southlight 11