Irene Watson writes and publishes poetry

Let The

Let the oak whine at an opened door,

its coldness float in and let, just let

the opened door stay in its stillness,

wood wormed and sullied, old-rooted,

with a yawn of a sofa-slept dog,

fringed by blanket 

and discarded gifts.

It is a forgotten,

yet another forgotten day,

gathering dust

out of season.

Let the velvet curtains close 

on shuttered windows,

to comfort the draughted stacks of 

dog-eared, spine bruised books

(some new and advisory)

and as the mantle granites a tick-tock

and a tick and a tock,

let the time-worn

just be,

just be.

Irene Watson

Subtlety at Play

Subtlety at Play

The discount store doorway is adrift of today’s news. 

Hollow bottles sleep out cold in sleep-full quilts. 

When a whirl of small-talkers pass by, comments fly of “oh, just look the other way”

and then duly click-clack on; 

discuss nonessentials 

and buy cake. 

In a hoodwink of intent

Callie stretches,

elaborates a yawn. 

A jewelled magpie, 

hops and hovers over a street pigeon 

pecking scatterings. 

In anticipation, 

a lithe spider limbers up.

All Stacked

I used to draw all the time 

on top deck buses or civic benches

perched cold on walls, waiting

unseen, barely blinking.

I would be there, sketching

shading, pencilling frowns

hand always moving

forming images, capturing light.

I have books full of sleeping people

paused and moving people

boats lie in harbour under my bed 

skies all rolled up in attic rooms

sand crinkling within webs 

coastal villages smudge beside

life drawings, all stacked, paper thin.

But I paused for a while.

Veins of learning spread into others; 

pencils rattled in tins

children drew my time.

But now, I bolt the studio door 

slosh paint around vast caverns

wallpaper brushes daring 

music blaring, not a person in sight.