Marion shuttles between Lincolnshire and Houston, Texas. She works as an English tutor. Recently completed an MA in Poetry with Royal Holloway. Widely published in magazines and in anthology Glimmer. Currently working on first collection.
Snow-covered park – a pale sun
pokes thin fingers through the rowans,
scribbling shadows at our feet.
Last week’s storm strewed the ground
with branches, turned the paths to mud;
today only our footprints blot the whiteness.
We stop at the pond, iced over but for
a black circle, blurred grey at the edges -
the pupil and iris of a blind eye.
We’re strangers – just cards at Christmas –
an age since university. Ruth shifts
her weight from foot to foot, staring
into the black hole, groping through
the years for the first words of her story.
The crack of a twig splits the silence:
a cock pheasant stepping from a bush.
We watch its jutting head stab red
and green across the parchment white.
High planes drag ragged chalk across
the slate-grey sky. Words sink and drown.
We turn to retrace our tracks in the snow.
Poem published in earlier version in Orbis, 2007
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