Sally Anne Adams

Sally Anne Adams p.1

Camp Fire

Marmalade

Some Sunny Day

Camp Fire

Kumbaya my Lord we sang
around the dancing flames
our bottoms on the clay.
Kumbaya my Lord we let
the notes all high and bright
pierce the night and reach the star
beneath the eyebrow of the moon.

Someoneʼs crying Lord knows who
it never would be dry-eyed
Jenny Jones she learnt to breathe
it in and sing it sweeter
than the robin or the boy
soprano singing
round another fire.

Someoneʼs praying Lord knows who
it never would be pout-lipped
Jenny Jones she learnt to spit
it out and ask it quicker
than the vicar or the boy
soprano singing
round another fire.

Someoneʼs dying Lord knows who
beneath the eyebrow of the moon
it always would be air-head
Jenny Jones she learnt to break
the rules. The devilʼs child plays
with fire. The boy soprano
always would sing deep and low
around another fire.

Copyright © 2011 Sally Anne Adams
Camp Fire read by Sally Anne Admas
Marmalade

Always in February when
the Sevilles sit in
the market huddled
in naked blemished
skins, always in February
I revisit the ritual
of squeezing juice
from pith and pip,
quartering and slicing
chunky or fine, maybe
a dash of whisky
according to mood or whim.
And always I remember him
in that hopeless, peeling
kitchen, surfaces agog
with pills and unpaid bills,
smiling at the ugly Sevilles,
measuring the quart of water
two pounds of sugar,
measuring the sharpness
of his well-loved
knife, his finger brushing
like a close, careful shave.
Always in February jars
bittersweet filled
with shreds like
a shoal of golden minnows
from once upon a time.
I can no longer bear
it on the scented
memory of toast,
so always in February
I give it away.

Copyright © 2011 Sally Adams
Marmalade read by Sally Anne Adams
Some Sunny Day

If you could see
me now I know
you would speak
in the high space
your death has left.

I listen

to the distant geese
on Lackford Lakes
the cockerels in the village
crowing over and over
the crossbills in the pines
squeaking like a hinge
in need of oil.

I listen

to my thoughts.
You might have been
with me on a day like this
the sun hot enough
to warm the Breckland sand
hot enough for ice cream.
At 89, as you would have been
today, we would ignore
the diabetes and soothe
ourselves with the sweet cool
taste from childhood,
both of us

silent.

Copyright © 2011 Sally Anne Adams
Some Sunny Day read by Sally Anne Adams

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