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

                  Mother-Sheera-My Mother Sheera.
                  Trees-Tell-Me-Tales.
                  Ta-ta-tra-ta.
                  Lorna dark eyes, smiling lips, watched Isobel stillborn
Mothers silent breath, love mute, love death.
                  Father engulfed her, his blood, his only life.
                  This fragile thread of family to covert.

                  Wash Lorna, dress Lorna, live Lorna.
                  Sapling caressed, sapling suppressed.
                  She looks to trees, tell-me-tales.
                  Isobel whispers, tell Father no,
                  Isobel.... Lorna, cling to Isobel.
                  Fleeeeee….Iso....Fleeee.
                  He’s harm, means no harm, he’s harm.

                  Catch a breath, please Isobel,
                  Sheera breathe, please mother breathe.
                  Bre....bre...breeeeathe.

                  His hands are gentle, hands so large.
                  Through my hair, feeling my mouth, my nose, my eyes.
                  Lorna, I am Lorna, I am his.

                  Willow, I look to you,
                  Tell-me-tales, talk to me.
                  Sheera, Iso-tell-me-tales.

                  The cottage is empty, so stark, the willow has life in
leaves, breeze is beauty in words, listen to the words.

                  Be strong, be strong, be strong, be strong, be strong.
Lorna be strong, be strong. We watch with you, watch with you,
with you, with you, with you. Whisper with us, whisper with us,
be strong, be strong, be strong, be strong, be strong, Lorna be
strong, be strong.

                  Father: Lorna, take my hand, let us thank the Lord for
the food before us.
                  Lorna: Thank you Father.
                  Father: Thank you Lord.
                  Lorna: Thank you Lord.
                  Father: Amen.
                  Lorna: Amen.

                  We will grow, the willow will spread its arms and the
cottage will become nothing.

                  Lorna: I am ten, I am strong, confident within your
branches, your whispers, your reflected light-warmth. Father
seems old, his hands are rough, his breath harsh. I bake the
bread, we thank the Lord, I milk the cow, we thank the Lord,
we lay down to rest, we thank the Lord, I call your names,
Sheera my Mother, Isobel… Talk to me.
                  Pleeeee….

                  Lorna sits pretty, high above the cottage, eyes on
the trickling water of the brook, listening to leaves, listening
for..

                  Isobel: I am seven, no, I am.... I am with you... Warm,
safe, please touch me.... Ta-ta-tra-ta.....

                  Lorna, dark eyes, distant gaze...
                  Father sees Sheera in her movement, her faintest
smiles.
                  Willow weeps sorrow into the dwindling brook, Father
kicks off his boots, mud clumps fall lost by the doorstep, yeast
strong in his nose as he steps into the cottage.
                  Lorna: Father!…. Father, the bread it is not, it
will..
                  Slap, kick, caress and smother....

                  Lorna, dark eyes, ashen skin.

                  Sheera: My Lorna, willow welcomes, we knew you would
come, come to willow, come to Mother, come to Isobel.

                  Isobel: Ta-ta-tra-ta.

                  Lorna: Breeeeeee....

                  Willow: Lorna-live-Lorna.