Fiona Sinclair





suffixes some sentences here,

its soft consonants and vowels caressing like a zephyr.

So, I interpret it as a blessing that sanctions

the ducking and weaving that will bring us back next year.

Instead I find it translates as a provisional If God Wills;

An acceptance that he must rubber stamp such plans,

that turns the word sour in my mouth.


Because I would rather put my trust in

that spiritual junk mail posted on Facebook

which offers at least an illusion of free will,

or take my chances with fate’s roll of the dice

than put my faith again in a God

I found to be a partial parent taking against

certain children he cannot love-





They must have bought the ground from a farmer

with rolls of readies and a handshake;

the rest of us baring mortgages like overburdened donkeys

or just managing to scrape together robber baron rents.

A bit of spent land discarded like some fly tipped old carpet,

partially tucked away beneath the dual carriageway’s overhang,

nevertheless, I spot them from the passenger seat;

their caravans circled against the old bill, tax man, planning officers,

smoke puffing from chimneys, suspended in the dank atmosphere

like tiny grey clouds; some nights the red rag of a bonfire waved,

environmental protection limiting us to November 5th.

Fridays, they overrun Tesco’s, voices at full volume,

laughing in the faces of our dirty looks,

their blood line, in fact, pure as British aristocracy.

In spring a digger claws at the earth to plant another van,

a wedding gift for engaged offspring, or to keep an eye on

aging grandparents, no word I think for ‘lonely’ in the Romany lexis.

Of course, I realise; only a smattering of literacy,

not on the mains, and Victorian attitudes

to a woman’s place, yet still grin when they shake

their heads at council semis, refusing to be domesticated.



Fiona Sinclair © 2019