Lately I have watched them covertly,
One jumps at the sound of a car being unlocked
Paddling in supermarket car park puddles,
Staring at me, when I take the bins out
One held a dead pink and yellow fledgling
A flop necked joke about augury.
They have deep indigo eyes
The cornea a violet meniscus
Of sundogs and starshells
I see cumulonimbus
The tense glitter of mica
The little boat of Hokusai
Forever ripping the tunnel
I do not listen to you any more
Now that I know about such lenses
I’m hiding in bushes
Ferocious as a blind sniper
Turning the outside in.
Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2018
Drawing of unknown girl by Veronica Aldous
The Little Devils
Such warts! said Father Emil
As he opened the shed
But it was just fungi nobbling
The surfaces of the racks
Where once-apples turned into leathern bog men.
Outside the the paint fell Rizla-rolled
As foxes scrabbled underneath
Squabbling in the foundations
Pooping blackberry pips and undigested
Valerian stinking binbag slurry.
Inside skewed and sagged wallpaper hung
Ensor-throttled shreds of pretty leprous swabs
Lisle stocking bedraggled
A harmonium jammed in one corner
Propping up the window ledge.
Breathed an asthmatic stopped-diaposon
It fainted clean away into faint lines
Drawn on the air in lithe spore-curlicues.
There was no grey father, no priest
Where all things are nutrients
Brood hypnagogic spectres
Wheezing breathless brain- ninnies
Lecterns rise like ruthless giggling bibles.
Ergot stung the eyes.
Father Emil raised the skirt
Of an overwintering chair
Legs emerged, full blown chorus girl clawed feet
Which cantered in mid air
Showing mildewed mahogany thighs.
Veronica Aldous 2018 all rights reserved
Drawing-Little Candle Ghost- by Veronica
Making me a Cardigan
Watching her flick the wool
In deft lilac loops
Talking as she knits,
Knit one, yarn over.
The gas fire hisses
A hot grid in which ballerinas
Shimmy and twist, yarn forward
Passing the slip stitch over.
The apricot wallpaper yawns
The angel cat puts his paw
Into another slipper
Such a dearhearted person.
The antique painting shines
The lady leans forward
To help us with the pattern
Her stiff black crucifix
Against her fruiting bosom.
The clock chiming eight, the mossy sofa
The walnut wood with its odd devilfaces
The draught under the door
The glittering glass doorknob
Night presses behind peach silk curtains
The front door is one hundred years old
That should be enough.