Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

Poetry Library Southbank Centre - The Poetry Library housing the Arts Council Collection at Southbank Centre

« Previous item
Contents of this issue
Next item »

Noel Whittall

print this page

Glamour

The train was full. They always were.
I sat, in short trousers, on the hard corner
of father’s roped case,
fingers griming as they followed
a groove beneath the window.
Counted mud-ankled cows, rows of lettuces,
runner-bean poles in signalmen’s gardens,
all beyond the dip-swoop-flick,
dip-swoop-flick of telephone lines.

Nose close to the glass,
I watched her reflection
in the shadow of my face.
Sensed a perfume beyond the metal smell
of smoke and coal and steam-oil.
Saw lace at her neck; earrings when
her hair parted; a pale coat
I somehow knew could not
be bought in Kendal or Carlisle.

Tall, swaying with the carriage,
talking to an officer,
who held her elbow round the curves.
She threw a small smile while
refusing a tight green apple
from the bag my mother
passed along the corridor.

At Preston she fainted. I saw her go,
thought at once of death.
She slumped inaccurately at my feet,
volleying from between her vivid lips
two horseshoes of tooth and gum.
One settled inches from my sandals.

 

Page(s) 13

Back to top