Satya Bosman is a poet and Editor of the Black Cat Poetry Press.
She lives in Kent, England with her dog Rollo.
Her poetry has been featured in Dreich Magazine, the Soorploom Press, The Kent and Sussex Poetry Society, Duckhead Journal, The Lake, Paddler Press, The Galway Review, A New Ulster & Southlight amongst others. She is currently working on her debut pamphlet.
A couple walking past my house
They’re in step, he a bit taller
she wrapped up warm. A favourite shawl, I think.
The air is crisp, they’re both huddled
their hope part concealed. A few more years
to tend to the allotment? Its sunflowers,
ripening broad beans and French peas
to water the houseplants, the favourite by the window
the one positioned to get all the sun
to sit on Friday evenings by the fire,
and to say we’ve had a good run.
For Aubrey and Joseph
Running around on the farm in the Cape
outdoors until dark, the night crammed with stars
the sound of cicadas clicking clicking
Raiding the kitchen pantry for sugar,
normally in packs of powdered jelly
that stained our tongues and fingers red and blue
Trying on my grandmother’s wigs for size,
reading the same few books over again.
I couldn’t pronounce Joseph so Jovis
you became. I’ve written stories for you;
Jovis and Aubrey went into business
and now own most of the town, and the farm
I keep the picture of us, my long lost
friends, looking out for me behind the glass
A bird’s nest lays on the ground, at least a week’s work,
a life measured in hours.
Above it, an old oak, that stands tall in the centre
of the farm.
The harvest was good this year, and the sun took its time
to set each evening,
its warm orange light spilling over onto the fields.
Inside the main house a half-read book and a pair
of reading glasses wait for somebody to return.
People come and go but all is still.