The Last Mile
I ran from tail flicking Friesians
their eyes, pools of nowhere, and when
everywhere wore off I returned,
silenced the radio on the last mile –
one hand off the wheel hugging
haw-thorn-alder-ash ditches,
gates looped with blue fatted twine,
bath troughs, John Deeres rutted verges.
Neighbours flashed the daughter’s red car,
I accelerated after the hairpin bend
to fuchsia draping white piers,
remembered red tear drops popped
waiting for tyres rumbling on asphalt.
Pebble dash walls, sash windows,
half-drawn lace blinds,
backdrop for snapshots in Sunday’s best.
Two chairs remained on the lawn,
green striped fold ups, relics of
a papal visit, 1979
and a generation of John Pauls.
Seldom, I drive the last mile now
the chairs and the congregation
somewhere else, though its locket
dust blooms as vibrant as fuchsia.
Stop Off
In a corner facing the bar
you nurse a snifter, I sit opposite
stir a porcelain pot,
our sea saw chat interspersed
with speculations you pry from
high stool carry-ons.
A woman clutching a packet
smiles enroute to the push & pull
door, and with one palm on
the clasp of your cross-body bag
you go in slow motion pursuit
request an update on your return.
I raise my eyes, your cue
to regale me with breaking news
wafting from the smoking shelter.
I drive you home. In the tiled
dark hall the hum of a radio host
welcomes you.
Learn more about Marie on our Contributors’ Page.
Marie’s first collection of poems, Real Worlds, is published by Revival Press and available here.
(Photo: William Murphy/flickr.com/ CC BY 2.0)
- Two poems by Marie Studer - January 4, 2024