comfort

La Marseillaise

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 

My dead fathered wandered from his bed

complaining of the cold.

His bed, too empty,

needed my mother for warmth.

I told him, then, return to your bed,

warm it ready for her.

 

My mother had fallen down.

I lifted her, naked, onto the marriage bed

and ran through the dark night house

seeking her fresh cotton gown.

 

Children ran through the corridors,

laughing, hiding and seeking,

when they should have been sleeping,

but I let them play

 

When the blackbird sang in the morning

we went out to feed the horses,

the beautiful, lovely horses,

their warm breath steamed in the air

as the night watchman strolled away.

 

The courtyards smelled of new-mown hay

in this city of ancient archways.

The theatre people were waking up

and lighting breakfast fires.

In the hall, behind closed doors,

the band tuned up to play.

They played La Marseillaise.

 

I walked through the city that morning.

I smiled to myself, at the gift of imagination,

and the comfort it always brings,

as the starlings deafened my ears.

 

 

Grace

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

emerging from a night that’s almost gone
my mother moved about the kitchen slowly
such quiet grace should herald in the holy
brush strokes of light burst forth and shone

what shadows will the evening bring
when light is low behind the window blind?
if i look out what comfort will i find?
a choir of angels, distant, softly sing

Perfume

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

The smell of roast coffee haunts the street.

I wait to reach it, breath deep

as we pass, my mothers high heels clatter

briskly across the cellar grating as she drags me

by that alluring café where people are talking.

I imagine them all as artists, writers,

just as I want to be. Is coffee the key?

 

In summer, roses and sun cream,

the smell of a warm tennis ball,

at the pool, fluoride burns in my throat,

hot tarmac, big roller pressing it flat.

The heat of a greenhouse full of tomatoes,

geranium leaves crushed between fingers,

new mown lawns and sprinklers.

 

Wet dogs, the strong deep smell of horse,

bran mash and hay, wintergreen, autumn, leather,

new baked bread and a simmering curry.

More pungent the scent of a dark, damp wood,

seaweed on the wind by the ocean

that catches my heart and opens my lungs.

No hurry then as the world stands still.

 

My father smelled of sawdust, tweed,

tobacco, fresh paint and engine oil,

of his indefinable tribal self,

nothing like anyone else.

As a child that smell meant safe,

warm as the smell of a fir tree

bedecked in Christmas lights,

firelight shadows on walls.

 

I can recall the perfume,

the scent, the pure animal smell,

of everyone I ever loved.

 

Now give me oranges, rosemary,

bergamot bottled, uncorked,

for comfort alone.