Alchemisland

Woman from the town

Last house row of three Baxter Street

Leased for years, Elise the landlord

Is divorced and living overseas, happy

To have it occupied and making piece;

House like that not bad not great, nice little earner,

No boast to it nor toast at signing but free of mother,

Like Turner mollycoddled yet masterpieces, less cuddled brothers

Incapable of depthful, gainful creation.

The sun as on waves, waves orbing to be the sun

The son on mother waits with tiered buns

In her parlour taking stock, here it comes the sun, come here son.

She does not know Turner but a nice picture would turn her

It is not knowledge that creates beauty, knowledge which replaces,

She admires a fine work and knows the painters’ names, some,

Especially ones who knew splinter.

Splintering off into asides, digressing but her portrait progressing is it not?

More impressive than ‘twas before Turner trode out for inquest.

Not for her to shift ships thousands, even Schliemann seaward, with comelier plainness blest.

Round headed but unrotund, flaxen-haired multivalate sculpting lends head handsomeness and jazz spirit;

Curls out in cauliflower balls, something like a twenties starlet, only twenties now notes in wallet.

Imperial on her night, ballgowned and gem-necked, gentle diadem, but no wonder.

Works weekdays, Friday living, weekends off and wheatfields, westfolds, ways and woods wanders.

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Her one of three Baxter Street, number fourteen.

As a teenager played football with boys keen

To score, not goals. For her age, more than fine

Digs; Dale Close near no ball games sign.

In Summer she wore a gown

It fell below her knee, in Fall

A jumper, something sensible.

Office, brown heels clacking,

Sensible, read hideous, trainers for tram home.

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You know her, woman from the town

Sometimes frowning, sometimes smiling, mostly illegible that look

Not fixed to phone like some, always looking up and around 

Vaguely proud her craning nose the air sweeping, that nod, certain bent

Well postured and raised but not bred

Everyone around here knows her

Anyone who wouldn’t know her maybe isn’t from around here.

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Mornings she’s aphone talking someone’s ear off 

Wedding banded, full of chat only a husband could suffer

I imagine bed still warm from her, him glad the rest, phone going and him groaning

Sometimes she powders her cheeks, bronze dust reimagining the air in her aura

Spraying perfume on the tram as one should not but spiteless really

No great pride or sense of being above others, broadly unashamed.

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You know her, anyone would

Recently admitted to friends she’s seeing strange creatures

Preceding their incarnation an overture

Tonal droning invites tongue drying

Orbs apparate, strange light prisms 

Rising and falling like work of Fitzgibbon 

Fogging vision, sable lain, amidst dark a cleaving lane of light

Lances toward her middlebrow and like an invite

To a demon moths Them into the sitting room

Primordial reawakening, senses unstirred languid aeons tingle 

Old ones returning with want for long burning

For some with this syndrome the terror involved never lessens

Stress is heightened, the uninvited unsettle and test mettles.