Poised in the dull flicker of electric light
And ready to operate with a bread knife –
Suited to the job but never quite sharp enough.
Sleeves up, elbows deep within the damp, fungal smelling cavity,
Grabbing handfuls of slippery sinew from within the rusty skin.
Most dumped aside while some clinging like sticky strings
To my stained aching fingers.
I dig and scoop in an attempt to bring life to this ribbed exterior.
Working to remove bulk –
Not for speed,
Making room for light to shine
Through the crooked smile and piercing eyes.
No cold metallic, sterile theatre here but
A sturdy kitchen table between sauces and papers will do,
Watched by my sister, who has abandoned her homework
To pull the drapes and turn on the radio news
To disguise any screams on the cold autumn night.
The roughly cut squash lantern –
A trophy is held high in my arms,
As a proud parent cradling new life.
This one. A creation borne of vision
On a dark autumn night.
Clive Grewcock is a writer based in the Scottish Highlands with a particular interest in language and the way it can evoke a depth and emotion through creativity. "Poetry has a wonderful power in our world, not necessarily in a shouting way but also with subtlety and asking others to invest and bring something of themselves to the work. It is good to contemplate and consider through writing."