{"id":9058,"date":"2015-08-22T08:00:19","date_gmt":"2015-08-22T08:00:19","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/ink.verticalplus.co.uk\/archive\/?p=9058"},"modified":"2015-07-29T13:50:32","modified_gmt":"2015-07-29T13:50:32","slug":"9058","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/9058\/","title":{"rendered":"Marg Roberts"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p><strong>Minster Towers<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>I sit where I always sit in the pink chair with wings.<\/p>\n<p>There are no magazine or papers here.<\/p>\n<p>My mother\u2019s eyes close, her pinnie dappled with porridge<\/p>\n<p>Her hands warming mine. Blue hands. Blue from my walk<\/p>\n<p>Across Saturday market, across the car park<\/p>\n<p>Through the door that only lets you in.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>I sit where I always sit in the pink chair with wings.<\/p>\n<p>Jean shrieks, My mother died, then my brother died.<\/p>\n<p>My father, he had cancer.<\/p>\n<p>We drink tea. We watch the blossom blow.<\/p>\n<p>I was ready to go. I wanted to go. They were mean.<\/p>\n<p>We remember the sea. We talk of the waves. We feel the cold.<\/p>\n<p>I got ready in my dress. They were mean<\/p>\n<p>Because they wouldn\u2019t let me go.<\/p>\n<p>Jean remembers the sea and its waves and wants to see them again.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>My mother cradles the past like a favourite child<\/p>\n<p>Too wrapped in her world to risk the outside.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p><strong>Marg Roberts<\/strong> writes poems and prose. Her poems have been \u00a0published in <em>Orbis, Cannon\u2019s Mouth, Coffee House.<\/em> She was Warwick\u2019s Poet \u00a0Laureate 2009-10. Some of her published work can be found at : <a href=\"http:\/\/margspoems.weebly.com\/\" target=\"_blank\">\u00a0margspoems.weebly. com<\/a>.<\/p>\n<p>Note: Minster Towers was the name of a residential home in Yorkshire for people with dementia.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Minster Towers &nbsp; I sit where I always sit in the pink chair with wings. There are no magazine or papers here. My mother\u2019s eyes close, her pinnie dappled with porridge Her hands warming mine. Blue hands. Blue from my walk Across Saturday market, across the car park Through the door that [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-9058","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9058","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=9058"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9058\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":9061,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9058\/revisions\/9061"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=9058"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=9058"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=9058"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}