Free-wheeling on my own, a lone
sanderling winging over islands, no-one
to please, I guzzle what I want, lick
fingers, laugh reckless at garlic breath, ignore
the rest of the flock settling for the night. Then
remember when you misread that recipe
How much wine did we drink? Now
my mind’s full of shades and sounds clamouring
to be shared, my pockets stuffed with pink pearl
shells to be emptied and examined. That
smouldering sunset is too good for just me. I dig
in my bag past quartz pebbles,
rattling poppy heads – Hello
Oh it’s great, wish you could have
come. You’d have written a poem.
At a double shuttered window
moleskin peaches wait in shadow,
Plums glow dark, rich as royalty.
Golden flesh nests armoured stones.
Walnuts cradle battered wombs.
In the cool of curved walls
under a light-filled dome
round the trulli table, the women
pick over sun-gifted bounty, feel
the South in their nails, cut out
blemishes, find their voices.
previously published in The Open Mouse Oct ’16
Finola Scott has been writing since she retired. Her short stories and poems have been widely published in anthologies and magazines including The Ofi Press, Clear Poetry, The Lake, Poets’ Republic, And Other Poems & Raum. Scott is a performance poet, and is proud to be a slam-winning granny. A workshop junky, she’s enjoyed learning from a wheen of classes including those run by Donny O’ Rourke, Helen Boden, Magi Gibson and Marjorie Lotfi Gill. She participated in the Clydebuilt Scheme, and was mentored there by Liz Lochead. Scott’s hobbies include: playing Mahjong, eating chocolate and being entertained by her grandchildren… not necessarily in that order.