Bruisewort

You try to schedule days in which the rain is not a matter.

On market days when it falls, you move into the world

exuberant as a sin. Wearing yellow without irony,

try on wide-brimmed hats in tones you wouldn’t

usually consider. Delicate dove of a fascinator.

Hone in on unbuttoned voices: the trick is to swim in

gently. There is usually someone left

waiting, holding a slot for you in the queue.

Still life by the clock house, sight-dog

with woman handing out free words

from a collection tin emptied of tobacco.

Choose experience; to try. To test.

To remember trial has roots.

Inside the Church

of the Redeemer, stand alongside

mourners of Christ. You, with no faith

but you keep seeing moon daisies in the wake

of summer. Stood by the heel of Mary Magdalene

you wish to believe, as certain as the flower

that closes at night its day’s eye, that she sees

Jesus returning to his tomb.

‘Bruisewort' won fourth prize in the international Kent & Sussex Poetry Society Open Competition (2025)