While the sky shimmers like shot silk,
chimneypots a toothy smile,
I count the pots, 1 2 3 4 5.
On my kitchen table, sheets and sheets
of screwed up poems,
I will flatten them tomorrow
for shopping lists.
While perfumed smells of hyacinths
bring memories of my mother:
‘They make lovely Christmas presents’
she would say, as she potted and tended.
The evening moves along
as evenings do…
The moon a half golden bracelet.
The sky cluttered with stars.
All is still, no trains, no cars.
And in this stillness
the midnight robin sings.
by Maureen Weldon (Wales)
Title Poem of Weldon’s pamphlet, Midnight Robin,
Poetry Space Ltd, 2014