Kate Ennals is a poet and short story writer. Her first poetry collection, AT The Edge, came out in September 2015, published by Lapwing. She has been published in various literary publications such as Crannog, Skylight 47, Burning Bush 2, The Galway Review, Ropes, Boyne Berries, and North West Words. She has published a novella, Slainté, on Amazon. A Londoner by origin, Kate Ennals has lived in Ireland for 21 years and runs poetry and writing workshops in County Cavan, and facilitates a regular literary reading evening and open mic. Her blog can be found at kateennals.com.
The Gull and the Cherry Picker
At Gate 102 in Terminal One
Standing in the Other Q
Outside the window
A yellow slinky mechanical claw
Moves with iron sexy grace
It bows and bites
Into brown earth
Gathers clumps of soil
Turns and twists
Back and forth
Along its yellow shining shaft
A sea gull floats up
Whispers sweet nothings
On a wing with beady eye
It flits, flirts
Round and round, insistent
Like a moth to yellow light
A tethered kite not tied
Full of intent, absorbed
A bird of vigour enticed
By a cherry digger
I leave it there to fly myself
To pay my own misplaced respects.
Especially When Cleaning Out My Fridge
I see how my plans came to nothing:
Blue and white mould
Grows on yellow cheddar,
Hardened, creviced, cracked.
Limp green leeks wrapped in plastic
Drip a pool of brown liquid
In the Perspex salad box
Where three orange carrots
Lie bent and shrivelled,
Alongside half a red pepper
Itself shrunken and wrinkled.
No cosy breakfasts of toast and jam
Ever came to pass
Despite the shelf full of blackcurrant jars
Which, untwisted now,
Reveal medicinal green fur.
No succulent curry dishes were ever made
With gleaming Patak pastes;
Vindaloo, korma, balti,
All from a factory
In Kiribati Way, Leigh, Lancashire
The bright yellow bottle of piccalilli was never spread
On delicious lunches of crusty white bread
Opened, tinned anchovies lie in the door
Congealed in crystallised oil.
Pink, sliced ham curls up in despair.
I peer at a cup of something saved
Who knows what…maybe whites of egg
Separated from its yolk and
Set aside to be whisked into dreamy swirls
Of sweet meringue
My fridge reveals brown splashes and spills
Once microscopic now macrobiotic.
They hang like stalactites
From the wire racks of plastic.
Especially when cleaning out my fridge,
I see how my plans came to nothing.
Home from Home
A soft breeze ruffles a grey coloured sea
Laced with small, lacklustre waves
Sparse surf splashes the shore. No grandeur
Just pebbles and stones
Wisps of cow parsley, cream nettle flowers
Dandelions, sea grasses that
Tilt wearily and waver on hillocks of sand
Where double bodied ants crawl
A bush of yellow rain emerges in the Irish sky
I stand, texture and colour ingrained
In my skin: green, pink, primrose
Blue, silver, brown, stone, seaweed, glass
Hot rubbery gusts, full of grit, petrol and diesel fumes
Fill my pores and breath
As I escalate from the underground
I sniff tar, fish and chips
The dust of the warm draught of tube tunnels
The exhaust of cars
I inhale blue sirens, red route masters
White circling Boeing 737s;
I weave through shining armoured cars
To the war memorial, Lambeth Palace Rd
White grains of Sahara sand dust Range Rovers
In front gardens of grand Georgian homes.