ACCEPTANCE
She holds a rose to her throat,
the leaves tickle her thoughts,
her face like a painter's palette,
her legs like easels.
She was once the beauty
stepping across the red carpet,
gracing coffee houses:
in an age of grace.
Now wrinkle-eyed,
she sits and sews and darns
her grandson's socks:
sitting in a wicker chair.
She sees her once dark
and lustrous hair,
and hears sweet music.
Maybe, it is just the trees
the summer trees and roses.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
EMAILS FROM U.S.A.
If you thought
I wanted to cling around your neck?
(that was in another dimension).
A fine catch?
No, with your hands slippery
like mackerel,
your feet flatter than dabs.
And what was in-between?
Eels and mussels
and little rock pools
for catching shrimps.
Now silence is your word.
The sham?
No message on-line again today?
So where are the waves
I once shivered down your spine?
Filleted perhaps?
• Maureen Wheldon is currently working on her sixth chapbook, which will be published by Martin Holroyd's Poetry Monthly Press.