Angela Kirby

Further to me setting up a category on this site for my mother’s poetry she sent me two new seasonal ones, which I’ve added below.

Winter appointment

It is, the stylist says,
combing my greying hair,
the latest thing -

this season’s decor -
these silver branches
that wreath the salon mirror.

Raising an eyebrow
at my reflection in the glass
I whisper

that age-old question
Mirror, mirror, on the wall -
and soft but clear

the answer comes
oh no, alas,
not you, my dear.

The Longridge shepherd thinks on…

Well, I’ll tell thee how it were…
we didn’t mek a lot of it at start,
what wi’ cold, and yon damn sheep
so restless. Drifts were that ‘igh,
but it were wind as got to oos,
froze our bloody bollocks off,
yon wind did.Dogs were oopset too,
wouldn’t settle like,joost whined
and whimpered, an’ yelped at moon,
meking a reet ‘ow d’ee do …. tha’ knows
‘ow dogs are, when soommat ails ‘em,
when soommat’s oop. Yoong Tel,
‘ee sees it first -bloody ‘ell, ‘e said,
joost like that, bloody ‘ell, an’ pointed
to t’biggest, foocking grëat star
tha’s ever sin, wi’ sooch a tail on it -
I tell thee, we’d seen nowt like it
beförean’ not like to again, I reckon,
notin this world, any röad – an’ then,
that Del, ‘e says, coom on lads, let’s
‘ave a decco, let’s tek a luke, like, no bloody
‘arm in that, an’ we’re off down t’ill,
t’lot of oos, silly as arse’oles, wi’ dogs,
sheep an’ all …. great bell-wether
out in’t froont, pelting down
t’Moocky Doock at foot o’t möor -
sithee,there were nowt to see, reelly,
joost a yoong lass wi’ a littl’un, an’
n owd bearded boogger fettlin’
a clapped-out mule – or donkey,
mebbee, I forget which – an’ yon
landlord, yon fat, pasty-faced git
from Goosenargh way, e’s only
choocked‘em out t’barn, but think on,
I’ll tell thee this – and ‘appen tha’ll
believe it, ‘appen tha’ll not -
we were all down ont’ knees
in snow and moock.

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