Margaret Cooke
At the Window
The kettle’s on. She’s at the window now,
Waiting. Soon there’ll be headlights, daughter home
From work, news, and the shopping to inspect
At the kitchen table. Evening stretches out,
Predictable.
Meanwhile, an inner eye
That never closes these days turns to a glass
That’s dark, opaque as cataract. A pale
Thinning is all it sees, but it must look,
Feeling its powers, must yearn. Beyond the glass
There must be life, full scope for perfect being.
Street lights flick on. The year is drawing in
To All Souls’ Day. The beads slip through her hands
Familiar as flour in a bowl. She prays
For the living and the dead, waiting between.
Page(s) 17
magazine list
- Features
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- 10th Muse
- 14
- Acumen
- Agenda
- Ambit
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- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
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- Dream Catcher
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- Floating Bear, The
- French Literary Review, The
- Frogmore Papers, The
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- Interpreter's House, The
- Iota
- Journal, The
- Lamport Court
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- Magma
- Matchbox
- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
- Monkey Kettle
- Moodswing
- Neon Highway
- New Welsh Review
- North, The
- Oasis
- Obsessed with pipework
- Orbis
- Oxford Poetry
- Painted, spoken
- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
- Poetry Cornwall
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- Poetry London (1951)
- Poetry Nation
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- Poetry Salzburg Review
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- Private Tutor
- Purple Patch
- Quarto
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- Reach Poetry
- Review, The
- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
- Seventh Quarry, The
- Shearsman
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- Smoke
- South
- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
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- Ugly Tree, The
- Weyfarers
- Wolf, The
- Yellow Crane, The