Underneath the Wiper Blades

I've just retired from MI5
surprised to find I'm still alive
No more dead letter drops 
no more spies
But what's this on my windshield?
I can't believe my eyes
a last shot from the Ministry
It's my form P45!

© William Botley
all rights reserved

Read all about it!

Every morning, anyone

can read the latest

spread-eagled

news on my windscreen:

the oblique messages

written in thin blue ink

on narrow feint A4

worn out programmes

or the backsides of menus.

But only the ghost of ‘Yet to Come’

can read what lies

in the spaces

between your lines.

© Sophia Roberts
all rights reserved

Windscreen

Summer and I lie in the grass

Watching the dark buzzard

Circling, crying in the blue.

I get up, intending to go home.

Holding my keys, I approach my car.

I see a flat plane of a note

Anchored under the windscreen wiper.

Tiny, neat writing.

‘I have seen you…’

© Valerie Taylor

all rights reserved

Winter Solstice

down through bleak high panes

pink of coral sinks to grey

a dark bell echoes

© Sophia Roberts
all rights reserved

Through the wardrobe

For years you have practised sitting meditation at this

solid, long limbed, tall as an ancient oak, door

imagining what it would be like

to cradle a cast iron promise

to toy with the possibility

to hold the key

that will raise the pins, create a shear line,

allow movement, and then entry.

You have it now

and measure the weight of it.

Caress and fondle it.

Slide indulgent fingers. 

Up and down. 

You trace the throat and the collar

feel for the deep grooves on the nose,

where the front limb bends slightly in

towards the centre cut of the bit. 

You have been a locksmith in waiting

learning how a key and a lock

work and wear together.

This lock was strongly made:

there is complex warding, double tumblers

and sliders arranged for maximum security;

it has withstood neglect.

You place the heart bow on your lips.

You exert firm pressure as the blade

enters the gate of the keyway

and compromises

an ancient inner sanctum. 

You stand at the threshold.  Here is the view

you waited for; what you wanted.

This is what you will find.

© Sophia Roberts
all rights reserved