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

One wore a dress the color of river, with a thin silk cuff of
                                                                                         sky.
The other wore a thick skirt, the color of linen dipped in tea.
The third one’s hair was a nest of leaves,
from which tiny blackbirds rose like smoke.
The fourth one wore her heart like a blossom on her sleeve.

Each carried secrets pressed flat against her waist,
like little sequins in a bag.

When they passed through our village, the fossils of
their shadows coated the roofs like twigs.
The men watched then as they blew sparrows of
blue smoke from their pipes.
The women pointed at them with fingers
thin and dry as quails’ thighs.

The artist in his little attic studio painted them.
He called his work -
Landscape With Four Women, Thirty Blackbirds, One Cranberry
Heart, And a River Strained Through Tea -

We hung the picture in our church, above the high altar,
lit candles beneath it, and said we had been visited by God.
Word spread. Rumors flew.
Soon the pilgrims came in air-conditioned buses.
Scapulars were sold by the yard and rosaries, by the pound.

We know there is something out there; even if we have
not seen it.
A dog is barking at the sea; shadows of fishes coat his
teeth like cream.
On the shore, there is a Sanskrit pattern of birds.
Outside the cathedral, the dead have left their
smiles in little rows like shells.

For days, we have dominated the five o’clock news.
Business is brisk. The dead rise. The lame walk
tentatively on stilts.
Portable toilets have been installed.

Soon we will have enough money to send the boys soccer
team to Brazil.