On Retreat

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.

Spilt Milk

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.)