Grand Slaughter
A white carrier bag
blown by the wind.
The head of a lamb
trapped in the bushes.
The smell of iron
long since cauterized.
So long since I stood
beside the glazed door,
the pub brewing inside,
my grandparents drinking,
enjoying half-term.
Okay? No I wasn’t.
Lemonade and crisps
a thin stripey straw,
Golden Wonder blue,
a cold hand, a cut mouth,
salt and vinegar tears
still dribbling. Okay?

Susan Wilson

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Susan Wilson would be pleased to hear them.