You never expect this kind of treachery. The creaking seven-legged spider unfolds itself on a Tuesday at 4am. So off-kilter it lacks the decency to begin on a Monday, as a good week should. It creeps down from the ceiling. You feel like a child whose cardigan is fastened second-button in first-buttonhole: What is this?
Helen Braid lives on the West Coast of Scotland with her husband and children. She is a graphic designer who started writing and has been unable to stop. Helen co-edits the Britmums Poetry Round-up and has grand designs on a stone cottage by the sea. Helen’s poetry can be found on her website: All At Sea
The audio-visual version of the poem: The audio version of the poem: …and below the transcript of the poem: Millions of Metaphors for the Mountain Powerlines Watch. Watch as the sheet music breaks apart and the staff unwinds at the ribbonpoint playing the time signature of the forest. Mountains in 4/4, Palm trees flutter in 6/8, set
These days I come here too often to offer you veins. You plant metal seedlings in the dark with a smile they tattooed on your face. A child runs through hitting every wall with a stick. He has not learnt to discriminate yet. Nothing escapes his tantrums when he rages. They keep coming in to
Garden still, washing strung up damp and limp, hanging there and hanging straight and not a breath of wind. And neither warm, balmy heat of summer gone, feels a little cooler now and days soon growing short. Feels a little like the waiting calm before the storm. Before the change, breeze that’s blowing our way,
Did you ever love me? I lived inside your lung once, a blue bird in your fleshy nest. You took care of me. How did you hold me? Remind me. I pressed my face against the cool glass of the window and howled as you walked past. And then— And then I walked naked along
How many days exist in which I am not a fugitive? The sunrise lifts the shadows from my footsteps but I am too indisposed to recognise its forgiveness. The cliffs rise with pale purpose as though God had taken care to rinse them daily. Chalk outlines lathered in pinched grass ferry imagination across latitudes. In
The girl wears a red dress that has the texture of coiled wire. It has a colour between crushed strawberry and papaya. Her eyes say, beware… She shows me the palm of her hand. I see the lines of her fate, her headline, heart and a scar that runs through them all like a knife