qarrtsiluni

The rain was soft the soil was warm

that summer of long skirts in batiked peony
fringed and wrapped round easy hips, and shifts
of sherbet yellow, mirror sprinkled all the way from India.

The rain was soft and sweet the soil was warm and rich

when we went barefoot and patchouli oiled
to gather rain spoiled roses and the flimsied heads
of everlasting flowers, silver membranes from thin honesty.

The rain was soft and sweet and fine, the soil was warm and rich and dark

when broom pods split and rattled out their seeds
between our tattooed toes, and rowan leaves caught
in our crowns of coiled and braided hair.

The rain was soft the soil was warm, that summer of long skirts.

by Susan Utting

Each day before they slip their frocks and stockings off
and naked, slide like knives through satin water,
one by one they shake the chestnut trees and wait
for any peeping Tom or Dick to drop like plums
and scamper bruised and red-faced through
the scratching hedge or squeeze their awkward
bodies out between the fence posts and the wire.

Then all the lazy sidestroke mornings drifting into
breaststroke afternoons, the ladies of the pond take turns
to sit out on the side and listen for a rustle in the shrubs,
a crack of twig, they keep a look out for a glimpse
of collar-white or toecap-brown. Then they take up their
handbag mirrors, flash the sunlight into prying eyes till
dazzled, blinded by the glare, the guilty lookers blunder off
and leg it to the heath.

by Susan Utting