Writing with the The Writing Mums has been the heart of me as a writer for the last five years. I wouldn’t be without them. The following poem was written on our retreat in October led by the extraordinary Catherine Simpson.
That night we’d gone to bed
we’d had enough of waiting
up for history and we knew
how this would play out.
It was 8am. The radio
was on. I was making
coffee. They’d been up
already, stuffed their bowls
with chocolate hoops-
I was too tired to tell
them to watch the milk.
It was on my knees then, that
I registered something was off-
a shift in the drone. I let
the milk spread at whim. Fuck!
I think I cried. Thought of Jo Cox
bleeding out on that Northern Street.
Wading through the milk, David
Cameron was resigning, I was looking
out their shoes. I shouted up
to my husband, It’s all fucked!
They’ve gone and fucking fucked it.
My three were splashing in the rush
of milk filling up our hall. I left them
to put the News on the telly.
His big moon face was on the run.
The Circus had come. I took the heads off
all their Lego figures, lined them up
and blew over each one. Jesus Christ!
He said taking my hand. Our children
must have opened the door, the split milk was escaping.
(Our neighbours were being washed away.)