Hooked/The Gloves – Creative Fridays

Hooked/The Gloves – Creative Fridays

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Delivering three poems about growing old, Lewis Henderson provides another dose of poetry to this weeks Creative Friday installment…

Hooked

Gili_Meno_BeachSand sticking to fibres,

Dampened by salts of the sea,

The towel had travelled far.

Two elbows peaked over,

Connected hands clutching pages,

Planning the next voyage.

The rectangle relished the new,

New grains on other beaches,

New hooks in other towns.

More trips passed,

Threads slackened,

Fabric hardened,

Labels departed.

A one-hook towel,

Hanging with no aspirations,

Appeased with memories.

At night sand returned,

Warm reclining bodies revisited,

Salts could be felt.

In ‘mourning’ the towel reminisced.

 

The Gloves

Wrapping quivering hands,

Bracing the nippy air,

Pushing the tartan trolley,

Fumbling for keys,

Sitting on the side.

Hands creased,

Hard skinned,

Spotted with brown,

Coated in veins.

Fingers Grew,

Wool loosened,

Colour faded,

Holes expanded.

When they were Juvenile,

When freshly knitted,

How they would play.

Games with snow,

Games with leaves,

Games with mud.

The Games still breathed.

The couple remembered them.

 

Thanksgiving_ovenVisits in the Festive Period

A solitary Milk pan,

Heated on the rusting surface.

No kitchen utensils to entertain,

No tins to be buttered,

No fragrances of spice,

Or bubbling of sauces.

Curious plastic meals frequented.

Occasionally, maybe once a year,

Lemon stuffed Birds returned,

Potatoes crackled in fat again,

Parsnips tanned,

Pudding steamed away up top,

Peas enjoyed a Jacuzzi.

This ended,

A shinier host took over.

Smells of warming bread,

Smells of sizzling beef,

Had a new permanent home.

The old has once been the new.

The new remembered the old,

Understanding the value of these visits.

Lewis Henderson

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