From The Land

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From wooden boxes
Her land
Unclasps
Still warm,
Knobbly tomatoes,
Imperfectly formed
But flush
With the colour of the sun.
Likewise, the just picked grapes,
Dusty with botrytis,
Contain the same
Sun-drunk quality.
And the wine
Decanted
With a funnel
In to re-used plastic containers
Is matter of fact,
Poured for its sweetness
And personality’s distillate,
Not for any labelled
Contradiction
Or propulsion
Of aggressive advert.
With a shrug of her shoulders
The woman says the only thing
She need ever say
To anyone:
‘I am, as I am.’

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Her Summer Dream

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Her summer dream:
To fling open the shutters
And find a cobble stone morning
Already bustling
With early light
And amblers
Foraging for breakfast.

From her dwelling
In a stone cottage
Fronting the harbour
There is no better moment
Than when the sea air infiltrates
And she hangs loose
On the window ledge,
Smoking a long, cool cigarette
And sipping coffee
As her eyes quiz
The holiday makers lives

While her mind wanders lazily
In the light of a summer dress
And in the passage of time
That might steer aimless
Towards lunchtime
Or even a sun dosed nap
In the hot afternoon.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

For Mima