Snap, crackle, pop.
Little white pill comes round and ready
As a new day
From its crisp plastic cell.
Nestling in the valleys and folds
Of my unsteady palm,
And detergent-clean- so to work
Neutralising the smudges
On a sullied personality
that stays a stubborn grey
Through countless turns of the machine
And spells on the line on sunlit days.
Always the dank dish rag that dulls
The fresh perfection of whites
And pastel brights
Waving in formation to the rhythm
Of a cheery breeze.
I peer into the clear water
And the clean glass
As if to see the future.
Then it’s down the hatch
To where the stones sit in the dark.
JAN/FEB 2017 AUTHOR OF THE MONTH at Spillwords.com
A mother of two boys, scribbling from the Western coasts of the UK, mainly poetry, but whatever comes out really. Former journalist and PR professional, the first whispers of middle age and declining eyesight made having a real go at 'real writing' a little more urgent. A Cornish native, I made my home in South West Wales so the sound of the sea sighs through my work every now and then. Lover of nature, yoga, boutique coffee shops and occasional (and very dreadful) surfer.