Thursday, 21 February 2013

"Mary and the Horse Thief" (inspired by Daphne du Maurier's "Jamaica Inn")

I could be said to be

falling in love

with a horse thief,

in spite of myself.

Yet, I don't - won't - refuse to - call it

"falling in love".

I am simply a woman,

and he is a man,

and something inside of me

is responding to something

about the man.

That is all.

And I try to ignore

the fact that his hands

are just like his brother's -

the hands of a murderer.

The hands of a murderer.

Seventeen years:

That's how long

my mother spent

as a widow.

Our little farm in Helford -

it was the only life

that I had ever known.

But the crops were failing;

the animals were dying.

When we buried Nell, the faithful old mare,

I watched

steel turn into shattering china,

before my young eyes:

witnessed my mother's first,

last and only

serious illness -

nursed her through

her final days -

reluctantly promising...

And so the promise - to go to my aunt.

I honoured my word.

And the moors,

so bleak and wild -

the landscape fills me with

a twisted, distorted

form of love.

So unlike my love, so pure,

for the river - for Helford - for

my people. My home.

And there it stands:

grey, solitary,

sinister and secretive,

the inn that bars its doors

to passing travellers -

not that many would wish,

or dare...

Yes, I could be said

to be falling in love

with my horse thief,

but I choose

to use

different words


Tuesday, 12 February 2013

"From the East Wing" (inspired by Daphne du Maurier's "Rebecca")

beyond those gates

and a drive that sometimes feels

as though

it will never end

that twists and turns

through trees

more trees

beyond red rhododendron bushes

lies the house

vast, secretive, imposing


and here

in the east wing

our bedroom

overlooking the rose gardens

so peaceful


and from here

one cannot hear the sea

I do not think of

the west wing

her bedroom

their bedroom

the softness of her silk nightdress

white sand


the crashing waves

a cottage in the cove

from here

one cannot smell the salt wind

cannot see or hear the sea

Sunday, 3 February 2013


Discomfort dissolves

into pain,

once again.

It clutches my body,

as panic encloses my mind.