Margaret Wilmot

Born in California, now living in Sussex. I am drawn by imaginative associations… memory, landscape, ideas, paintings, words. Writing, for me, is a tool for seeing; making connections, refining perception, always a search, some kind of amorphous truth the goal.


As Eve
The clay-lady steps forth
innocent as the child whose hands fashioned
arm-paws, hair-cape, the apple
she raises high as a chalice.
Her awkward radiance proclaims
a miracle: the first apple!
Salt-shine sprinkles her frock. A smile
cracks wide her face, emits kiln-light, and in its glow
we too see miracles:
a lump of clay – and look –
In Amsterdam
A clay-lady moves through
pewter streets. Her salt-freckled frock shimmers;
she leans high into her apple.
The burghers’ narrow hammered houses
cannot contain this fire-fangled clay. A smile cracks
wide her face, emits kiln-light.
In New York on a winter afternoon
The apple-woman sits
in the pewter chair, moon dimming in her lap.
Dusk filters through the gritty window,
absorbs, effaces
her salt-grey skirts, the strong dough-grey arms.
Her fire-fangled yearning salts
the moon with light.

Margaret Wilmot

Poem published in ARTEMISpoetry, Issue 8, May 2012

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