(The novelist Helen Carey and her cousin, poet, Mary Jenkins, plus Maisie, on Carningli mountain one summer day, in pre-virus times)
Mary sent us the two poems below and I felt that it would be good to share them.
Two poems, written by Mary Jenkins during self-isolation, March 2020.
“Run away, Mary. Escape.“
“It’s not safe here.”
Normally, if things get tricky and dangerous,
“Flee” it says to me –
But I could fly away instead.
Like the swifts?
How would that be?
“Fly where to?” I ask.
Swifts don’t fly to a place (unless it’s nest – building).
All the time, every day every night
Round and round the world.
Often breeding in China.
Feeding, drinking, sleeping
And even mating on the wing.
Lucky things I say, and brave.
We have to “stay put” now.
And we can also fly with the swifts.
Black is the “in – colour” this spring;
Matt Black Ash buds, opening now on stout
Twigs and trees;
Inflated, ebony nosegays
Are breaking; bursting out
of their cosy night attire
of winter past –
to pale, utopian lime – green, little bouquets.
Beyond my wilder dreams of us , me, the world.
And Black iris rebels against
established grass patch
By growing here where it’s triangular and unknown
half –way down the garden –
You shoot up amongst white –striped stems to guide and lead us.
We need “Black” to enlighten us now to sunshine.
Thanks for sharing these Mary.