No 21. Poems for International Women’s Day 2015

Mission Impossible.

The rain chased down gulleys

Unable to stay in the claggy  verges.

By now  the work men had left for home

The last echoes of their hammer bangs

Took flight across the Hofn hills.

It was a poor day.

Over at Belle View Ginny  in her renovated barn

was sitting cross-legged

up by the timber ladder

with the circular First Nations rug over her feet

sifting through dust for past achievements

to make a case for celebration

as March 8th approached


A smiling Maya Angelou matronly sat

at the bottom of Ginny’s  Victorian chest.

There were some rusted Women’s badges.

on top of old Spare Rib magazines.

What she found had to be relevant

for wives in houses and daughters

whose men were down at the fishing,

who still spoke of men’s work and

ordered only bath salts from the Avon catalogues.

None needed childcare, nor an equal wage.

Ginny thought maybe they had dreams

and when they prayed for the boat’s safe return

perhaps they had hopes for their bairns’ lives

hopes they’d never voice.


The postman’s van crunched on the gravel.

He threw something down on the welcome mat

and shouted up

From  London.

In a minute Ginny could count out the purple and green flags

and try a bunting kit.

She let down the chest lid.

It wasn’t her petticoat showing that made her blush

and exhale Charlie’s Dead

It was her more than a puckle

of arrogance.


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