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  • Writer's pictureNaomi Beaumont

Three Poems

Evening run

The sun slumps behind the train tracks

The last kids in the park shriek

A crunchy carpet of conkers

Like black marbles in the growing dark

A man sits still on a bench, staring

At pavement cracks like ruptures

And life seeps out from the houses

Burnt dinner, incense, maternal rage.

The bag lady at the bus stop

Is still waiting.


Garden sitting


Lazy aeroplanes scraping through the sky

Breezes ruffling the curly willow

A bee cruising past your ear

And the smell of warm, dry skin.

A far off car alarm, a siren, a child’s cry

Muffled signs of distress.

Overlooked by chatty parakeets

And candyfloss clouds

‘Escaped from London zoo you know....

then multiplied like rabbits’

Somehow it still feels peaceful

In the garden.


Motherhood


My body is not mine

It is ruled by these creatures

My back is a climbing frame

Hair is for pulling

Breasts are for feeding, grabbing, biting,

Entirely unaware of their strength

I feel like standing up and roaring

King Kong breaking his restraints

flinging tiny people to the ground.

Suffocated, invaded,

I want to lie down, alone, in a dark room

At any given opportunity.

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