by Richard Corney

Ambushed in the Woodshed

I bought a barbeque for my children
Wanting still to be their Dad;
Feeble competition
With the interloper in their home
Playing badminton with them.

Bright idea; some picnics in the sun
Retrieving times we had.
It’s surely possible still to have a life
Some life with them impervious
To that vile, helpless ending.

Found it in the woodshed, sorting all the junk
Shining, still quite new;
Rattling memories in my face.
Oblivious to feeling,
Come on, it should be sorted now.

The years have passed, the children grown
Surviving all it seems;
It’s me that’s left behind
It should be sorted now.

Well it’s not.


Streetside Lament

Within the saddest town
Careful looking might reveal
A fine grand building
Hidden amidst the squalor.

And there, in a shabby pushchair
A small tot, with tiny fists
Clenched against an unforgiving sky
Sobs uncontrollably.

The woman at the handles
Smokes, oblivious,
A mobile at her ear
For an unending call.

Somewhere within, surely
Lies the dormant mother.