Marion Lucy: Two Poems

The Hall

After Grandma died

the hall became a skeleton,

stripped and cream.

With the hats and coats

gone, the pegs exposed

rib-like,

I see their detail:

two knobs

like porcelain eye balls,

the others with the expected

swell of necks.

The only colour in the cream

is an old red iron

holding back a door.

Even the kitchen through the

door frame is milky.

A mustard cup

and painted flowers on a jug

quiet on the dresser.

Lounge Room

Lying on the autumn carpet

the window is split into

four frames of sky,

the clouds poised as if painted.

The curtains remind me of

pale felt, piano keys

and things from long ago.

If I sit up on the fire stool

the lower frames fill

with goose bumped sea,

the evening sun brilliant

on the lighthouse,

the small yellow island

sharing the gleam.

The fireplace is broad

and stacked with slender logs

the length of legs.

Later we will toast our bread

on black prongs.

Grandma style.

The room is a muddle.

Her items are on display:

lace, bread tins, twine

and pillow shaped

sheepskin cushions

soft and warm, yet

too close to what they were.

Just like the kidneys she fed us,

fried whole and curled

next to our liver and gravy.

Marion Lucy