Orkney Wedding
We’ve travelled island to island like fleas on old
bones, low drone of pipes steadying us at last
to a semblance of a congregation. The veil of mist
smudges the slow hunched landscape against
a curve of old hills. Each thousand years
just another tick on the clock, this new union
just another slip of survival’s cog. We redden
by a log fire, glasses kissing lips, toasting a wisp
of a bride, pride of groom to a future of year
on happy year with the sear of red wine, chill
of fruit edged white, depth of silent black
fathomless island beer. Whilst out there
the earth continues its dance with the moon
performed to a plain tune, rasped from cherished
breath of precious, un-mortared, ancient stones.
Joy Winkler
Jesus Wants Me For a Sunbeam
Mr Sidney teaches about Jesus,
soft words packing a punch
in the pine-shiny chapel.
His sheathed glare quells infants
subdues nudging adolescents,
his meek smile a signal
for the flock’s shuffling attention.
The Sunday chorus warms
to the ebb and flow of good old tunes,
“For those in peril on the sea”,
Mr Sidney feels the power.
His boarding house is open to sinners,
holiday makers who bear the brunt
of his righteous smile.
He makes them pay a penny for swearing
or for being late for dinner,
sings hymns while he fries bacon,
his apron always whiter than white.
He sells bottles of pop from a high shelf
every colour except black
and he whispers to the children,
“say your prayers –
Jesus never takes holiday.”
Joy Winkler
Morag’s Garden
In a corner plot no more than stones and dirt
we planted one bulb each, and one
marking the fish’s tiny matchbox tomb.
Squatting on the path we jabbed sun-baked soil
with rusty spoons, the day doused
in earth smells and friendship.
She died a child,
grew only in my crooked dreams.
Snowdrops teem to fill the space
that touched our childhood,
their winter heads transfiguring the place.
Joy Winkler
Built to last
I'd watch him on and off, building the infirmary wall,
putting sickness in its place on the other side.
I'd stop and point him out on the way to school
proud of his importance. Other kids
never saw their dads change landscapes.
Years later both he and the wall had shrunk.
He told of another he'd built, dry stone, low,
high point in his achievement, secret link
between craftsmen, a farmer had shown him how.
He built its likeness in jigsaw piece by piece.
Last week I sat with him on the other side
of the infirmary wall, talked of the past
laughed a bit and later watched him fade
breath bubble then stop. My fingers smart
as I brush against his wall feeling for memories.
Joy Winkler
Last Thing to Go
My fingers trickle rhythms on your palm,
family favourites, shadows of old songs
to make a bridge between us in the calm
of dying. My faltering serenade goes on
until your finger presses back. You’ve heard.
We sing together for a little while,
your voice inside my voice. Familiar words
set on your lips, mine the ones to smile
as every story that you ever told
me, seeps into the secrecy of death.
I blow them gently into the long folds
of memories, your breath inside my breath.
So songs and stories play out soft and long
I’ll keep them going even when you’ve gone.
Joy Winkler
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