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

My mother burning beneath moonlight
placed the fear of God into sceptics. Like a witch,
the pointy crown of her dark, dark hair
danced across crimson flames, stirred up umbrage.
In the shadows, they whispered, "No good
ever comes of a woman meddling in black diamond."
But luck was on her side and she was saved
from seeing her business go up in smoke
by wandering folk, by word of mouth.

There are many secrets my mother told me
I have long since forgotten,
like a cure for the Tormenting.
A sprinkle of powdered alchemilla
dropped in boiling forge-water
might have been the solution;
but I could be wrong. After all, this time
continues to play clever tricks with my mind.

The way she smelt of sulphur,
how to stem the flux or make a few loops
of blood-root sour in milk
which when fed to a child will curdle
their loose insides: these I can conjure up,
are pinpoints of light nailed into my memory.

And then there's the night
I first learnt to shoe a pony.
By happen-chance, it belonged
to a peg-legged tinker
and his round-bellied wife.
At the seventh attempt, I made it - my own
almost-perfect mooncrescent. A haze lifted
as I scalded, made it sizzle and smoke.
I was aware then that there was something else,
something I was missing.

I felt it as a deep sense of emptiness
the second my mother cast her shagreen apron
like a spell from her warm, swollen heart
into the gypsy-girl's lap,
told her that when the moment came
it should be wrapped tightly around the unborn,
told her it always eased the pain.