The Path
My steps stutter in small paces,
keeping balance in case I stumble
and roll down and down
landing with a splash
under the green ironwork bridge.
It’s a small stream
leading to pools that feed pools
draping silver shawls over
the edges, lingering waterfalls.
Paths are laden with last year’s leaves,
I can see the trail on the opposite bank
where horse chestnuts have littered
empty wombs of cream lined spikes.
The woman’s pale yellow gown
is plump and artfully reveals her
right breast. I don’t notice at first,
my attention is drawn to the white terrier
snuffling under her hem,
lapping her bare feet.
In response to my face she speaks,
“This is Siggy”
I wonder if she has named her breast
or is referring to the dog,
hoping and hoping she cannot read
the image of my lips pressed
to her rose-bud nipple.
She picks up her skirts out of the mud,
trudges after the excited animal.
I shake the pictures from my head
stride gracelessly on, beneath
fingers of willow brushing my hair,
crushing a stag beetle into earth.
The ducklings trail their mothers,
newly oiled and splashing pearls
of water over one another,
follow-my-leader bravery.
I look for the peacock flashes
that designate future drakes,
absent in these fleckled young,
once-eggs that slap, peck,
boldly push forward or wait
at the margins until, unnoticed,
they steal their chance then wait again.
The man startles me, jostling
along the narrow path, bumps my arm
far from calm, blue scarf flapping
and there’s a little poison in his stare.
“Have you seen my wife?”
I give him my blankest canvas.
Sue Spiers lives and works in Hampshire. She has a poem called Fanny Farts included in the Bloodaxe anthology Hallelujah for 50ft Women but she can no longer help her daughter with degree level maths homework.