A moorhen busies herself,
rocks this way and that
on a wave-washed nest.
Swans float in late afternoon chill,
chestnut buds swell.
Forsythia trembles the breeze –
pastel-green willows barely move
dipping branch-tips into the lake.
Every year I wait for this –
first flowers, trees leafing
on sculpted branches,
reflecting in the water
cascades of green.
Deadly Dinosaurs Delving
Dangerous Dinosaurs Dazzling
Decorous Dinosaurs Drawing
Dandy Dinosaurs Dancing
Dehydrated Dinosaurs Drinking
Desperate Dinosaurs Digging
Dizzy Dinosaurs Digesting
At the Playground
The March wind whisks against us:
my son, three, starts the roundabout
refuses to get on himself. Today
he has planned ahead, says it’s his turn
to push me, watches me on board
and I’m away. I enjoy being passenger,
store all this for later –
the afternoon’s lulled moves,
everywhere the air heady
and he in the foreground
racing his years, reminding me
to take care, hang on.
The ground spins, blurs; he begs it
with each command, checks
I’m not going too fast.
‘You can’t fall off,’ he says
I know it, this steady pace
contains us both, days overlap: he will perhaps
never love me more than now.
© Katherine Gallagher
A single drop
plop plop plop
joining other drops
Suddenly the sky’s gone black and dark
as the rain keeps pounding hard
on the street, on the houses
battering windows, never fleeting
raining thicker louder quicker
in the city on the streets
water coming down in sheets
raindrops dropping, never stopping
until, until . . .
© Katherine Gallagher
a clear lolly moon
over our road
she sashays slowly
focusing the sky
in the moment
with no pirouettes
she’s an old face
in her skin
(Published on London Grip Online Magazine, 2018)
I like to paint magpies
that I can see
when they’re warbling away
in our willow tree.
I like to paint my Platypus
and my favourite toys,
Trixie Tinder, Red Rocket
and the Rocket Boys.
I like to paint my family
especially my Mum
when she’s home from work
and my brother’s on his drum.
With every step among the leaves,
crackling, golden, orange, brown
you hear the music of the bees,
you feel the rhythm of your feet;
the slip and slide on crackling grass,
and the colours of the burning trees.
Keep on walking – it’s a treat
to drink the air and sing your feet
in crackling grass as you pass.
(after Charles Causley)
I am the song that lifts the sky
I am the wind that flames the fire
I am the cloud that calls the flood
I am the stream that draws the sun
I am the tide that drinks the moon
I am the air that sings the leaf
I am the bird that stirs the branch
I am the tale that flies the word
I am the note that spreads the song
I don’t know why I’ve got feet
when I could have had wheels,
for wheels go so much faster.
Imagine me flying down our street
not in my trainers or boots
but on wheels, with my ghetto-blaster.
Imagine people turning to stare
and all telling me to slow down
before I caused a disaster.
Imagine me gliding off into space
with a quick little nod to the Moon,
then simply going straight past her. . .