Geraldine Fleming

Geraldine Fleming retired early from an all-consuming career due to ill health. Bereft of purpose in her new life she found myself drawn back into past interests. This newfound freedom allows Geraldine to renew her interest in creative writing. She is a member of the Causeway U3A Portstewart Writing Group in Northern Ireland and enjoys writing both prose and poetry. In 2019 she was highly commended in the Bangor Literary Journal and more recently published in Pendemic.

a telling tear

                                                          of  first
                                                        g r e y  light
                                                memories   falter
                                             in a heart \ broken \ beat
                                         a smile twitches & winces  as
                                      Morpheus' comfort  diss o l v e s  
                                    a  sun  shower  on   parched   stones
                              proclaiming  to  the psyche  \ without fail \
                            arrival  of  the  snarled  flailing  'nine-tails  of
                          anguish \ dispensed  with  a  sure  wrist   flick\  
                           vicious grief deceiving space & time \ harrows
                               open & subverts each contented moment
                                    memories  ever-altered by reality
                                          survival effort resumes/

In Recollection of Loss

sticky earth is deep-dug
piled into a pretend hillock
loaminess rising from the fresh ground
catches the back of her throat

rain atomises the clay
liberating it
restraining it
in an impossible moment
in time
in space
in affinity

child's feet cling to the grass
seeking traction on the fragile roots
shoes encrusted by the trauma of the day
mumbled chants and choked whimpers
oscillate the air in equal measures

the box is jerked and swayed
into the straight gashed mouth
licked lips are salty
red cheeks are wind nipped
by the solitary graveyard wind.

Sunday Lunch

the last gravy you ever made
meaty fat and onion sweet
sheened by a dashing butter ball
chemistry in motion

cornflour speckles moonscapes the pan lid
leftover evidence in subdued focus
selenology mapping ash cones and rilles

stove clouds belch from
your garden's root crop
condensing on the cool wall
meteorology experiment epitomised

butter lava flowing over skin split potatoes
slow moving down the starch mountain
volcanology delight

Bramley's laid in beds of rich pastry
glee filled with anticipation
alchemy demystified


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