Extracts from Iona • Mary Palmer
Iona, a poetic novella, tells the story of how the Scottish isle and the elemental faith of the Celts enabled one person to deal with their demons and find peace. Comprising poems, prose and images, it is due to be published by Awen publications in the spring.
Punky Night
The witch kid giggles.
Bags heavy, you slam the door.
In the dark, touch
coin-cold walls.
The lounge, a candle flickers
on mothery lace, set for tea.
At your place, defined
by heirloom knives, an apple.
Swept by an urgent tide
you take a Hobnob
and another. Devour
the whole packet,
forbidden fruit cake,
a box of Black Magic.
Bloated, crumple
on the sofa
to drown in dreams.
Dawn rouses
one fish-pale penitent.
You slick a churchy smile
glossing thin lips peach,
brush crumbs away
and, locking the mortice,
grin sweetly all Sunday.
Port of the False Man
the wild orchids you promised in my dream.
‘He’s gone.’ A flash storm
from Port of the False Man.
Rain, washing down woad-dipped sky
blurred my vision. Lost, I gleaned only hemlock
and goblin apples, rotting ochre among thorns.
A peevish wind fretted, the chill withering
my mottled bouquet, tossed
grey as grief, to the Lapwings’ Lochan.
Pasture of the Geese
I have crawled on beaches,
hands sticky with blood and tar
clambered rocks where
the guillemot draggles
oil-slicked wings.
No more angel than a shag,
a junkie tossed to the gulls,
I gobbled up my nightmare
and retched on the dark.
Now, I treasure-trail barefoot,
squat on dunes soft as breasts
where water-flags surge
and lambs shudder the ewe.
Here, in this thin place
I choose to dream.
Milk-blue terns
light
on water
like pebbles skim my longing—
for the wild goose
whose wings alone
can shelter.
