She waited to glimpse her newborn’s eye slits,
With their hint of deep water inside
And the shadow of a whale just about to breech.

Then she waited for that son to come home, with the car.
She waited for her husband to phone.
She waited home alone.

She waits now for sales and for Christmas,
And for the bus to come.
She waits in the kitchen for the jug to boil,

She waits for the radio news to finish
Before she can check in the garden
For the first spring bulbs.

She waits contented, and in wonder
As, outside, her grandson digs another hole
And buries all his cars.

‘Lunch?” she calls for the fifth time.
A wrinkled omelette, brown-tinged apple boats.
An oily sheen on the juice.

“Lunch, right here! ” he yells, pointing to the hole.
She smiles. She is used to waiting.
Waiting is like looking through a jewellery box,

Letting the tumble of glitter and shine
Fall from her fingers, cascading forever
While she decides what to wear.


2 thoughts on “Waiting

  1. I get SUCH a strong reminder of how lovely your personality is in this Janice… there’s such a sense of calm acceptance ….it’s a very nice poem, wistfully sad to me though. Super photo. Tane looks so mature.
    We didn’t talk about your work yesterday, the bigger picture. I hope you were fit enough to manage anything last night? I planted up a few pots and kept on losing my balance in the gloom! …sh

    1. Ummm. it is not a good idea to lose your balance on your terrace, esp the north east corner. Very perilous. Thanks for the comment – most important to me. Yes, my default mood is one of sadness I think. and feelig very much so today for some reason. However, I have emptied two compost bins. That’s something. And I now have a collection of three sprayers – bottles you get from garden centres – cos in auckland you have to spray a bit of copper around for the damn leaf curl &c. BUT I cannot figure out how they work. Each one I bought I thought was broken but they all can’t be can they. I have no idea how they work. There are some things I am an idiot about. I think it is because I live in a flat 2D world and do not understand space at all. ps that rose you scrumped yesterday is wonderful – floppier even than Albetine, bigger petals. It looks wonderfully melancholy in its vase on the windowsill. I now have to go to the supermarket to haul back meat for that complaining cat. J

      On 18 November 2013 11:41, Janice Marriott's Year in Poetry

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