By Olive M. Ritch
The sun goes down in a blaze of fire
between big houses on the cul-de-sac.
I cannot look aside. For a moment
the sky is something to see. As if
the world outside is inside. Alive.
Vibrant. Intense like a burning bush,
and all smells of pastness, disappeared.
And I hold on to the brightness of the day,
until it fades away, and I am left with ash-grey skies, and one magpie, and then another,
across the quiet street, free to strut, dance,
and be nothing more than a magpie.
By Olive M. Ritch
Not a gap year, no,
just a few months as an au pair
in Norway, learning Norwegian,
and hitching to Oslo to see Munch.
He spoke to me of facing dark times,
alone, all alone. Then at a market,
those fresh cherries – an offering
of skin smooth sophistication,
and sensuality, unimagined,
until I bit into the red flesh
and tasted the threshold of a life
not yet lived.
By Olive M. Ritch
The mystery
of the hands of the sea, and the gift
of a ship’s oak hull ribs, knitted
together with wooden pegs,
takes me north,
north to that Sanday beach,
and the quiet mystery
of a wreck rising from sands,
as if drawing attention to its story,
past present future…