Janet Laugharne is a poet and fiction writer. A former academic, she lives in Cardiff, Wales. Her work has been widely published, including in Orbis, Acumen, Prole, Litro Online, Reflex Fiction and Poetry Salzburg Review. Her debut poetry collection is ‘Greenscapes … and other poems’ published with erbacce press after her success as runner-up in the erbacce-prize for poetry 2022. She also cowrites short stories and contemporary fiction with Jacqueline Harrett as J.L. Harland. What Lies Between Them, (Dixi Books, 2022) and ‘Angelo’s Journey: From Bardi to Pontypridd’, (Harland Press, 2024).
Garden Gnome One
Grey, small, almost animal-furry from a distance,
in jacket, trousers and boots, he’s lying
asleep, arms clasped over his belly, bearded,
against a mushroom or toadstool, also grey,
in the last patch of green among
dandelions and overgrown grass.
Hidden before by the tall fence.
Just the front gate still standing now after the bulldozers moved in –
when mountains of brick and rubble, earth and broken things
began to form.
Garden Gnome Two
I’ve been watching this gnome.
He’s looking down as though in a gallery, just by the rounds of dark wood ends
from the palisade which makes the raised bed,
with one blue eye.
He’s been painted.
Bright red hat and yellow waistcoat, with a dark blue jacket.
He has pointed ears and a weather-pitted face.
The cheerful colours,
his still, one-eyed gaze as the garden seasons change,
catch me every time, slowing my steps, walking by, to check him.
Garden Gnome Three. No Gnomes
That day walking, no gnomes,
mainly decorative tubs by front doors,
some with spring, some with dead autumn plants,
in front gardens of paving, grass or resin.
But the search revealed other figures:
A small female statue hand to head
by two pots, neatly planted, of pink and deep blue primulas.
A cherub in a garden close to home
embracing an empty tube or chalice.
And, standing, a Grecian woman
on whose head
an ancient bird bath sat.
Indulge
‘Do I dare to eat a peach?’ hit the mark
in the way T.S. Eliot spoke to me. Later, juice
dripping down my chin in the French field
I realised, literally, how apt. But
do I dare?
Go for the finest, most expensive wine,
get the top of the range, blue sports car?
‘You only live once,’ you said, ‘we
‘could be dead tomorrow.’
Cart or horse, it was true for you. But
for me, holding back, keeping in reserve,
best in the wardrobe underused,
indulgence seemed bottom-line risky,
a horror even, to put pleasure first. But
you dared, and then some,
wine and travel – all that stuff. To escape
the iceberg depths, I see that now,
in your dance over melting ice. But,
given a longer turn, I’ve braved
the peach, while preferring nectarine,
and found my favourite in mango,
the perfume, the colour, the flavour;
although it does have that ridiculously
large stone at its centre.
An Old Woman’s Invitation
She bends by the pot, brushing the scent
of lavender with her cherry-red jumper,
a hole in one elbow,
to find the big, iron door key.
Inside, one room and a king-sized bed
unmade. The smell of stale dog pee.
The poodle jumping and yapping.
She takes me to an ivory-inlaid bureau,
a gift, pointing with earth-black fingers
to studio portraits on the wall.
She’s laughing, lipstick and glossy hair,
a casual cigarette, her waist cinched,
confident. A Parisienne
hairdresser, I learn. How different
we are, but of an age
and I can understand
how she invited me in today
when we met by the closed boulangerie.
The Galway Review 