No pun intended

They're tucked into a corner,
folds of magenta silk
edged with coffee lace,
the Janet Reger's, long since
divorced from their matching bra.
My bottom drawer of memories.
No pun intended.

Bought by an old lover
who glimpsed me through
rose tinted glasses, dreaming
of stroking the silken folds.

French, pearly and white
sprigged muslin.
Black lace and red satin,
the high heeled vampish days.

A cloud of aquamarine nylon,
50's see-through, drip dry,
pre-cotton gusset, non iron,
rebelliously bought to half cover
a foetus swelling belly.

A museum of the underworld
of memory, an antique collection,
valueless, interleaved with empty
fragrance bottles, echoing scents.
Tweed, Charlie, Mitsouko, Chantilly.

Baggy brown interlock of early school days,
old, new, blue,
the white cotton, sporty and jaunty,
sailing round Greek islands

The G-strings, the bikinis, the high legs,
the crotchless, the seamless, the functional
the frivolous, the frilled, the pleated,
the spotted and striped, the greying,
the fading.

Material signposts, shrouded in tissue,
nestled with lavender bags.

The 60's jewel bright satins
The flowery 70's, patchouli oil.
The 80's thongs, the hipsters,
the strings, the Calvin Kleins,
Givenchy, Yves Saint Laurent.

Lycra, elastane, stretch,
serviceable, controlling,
midi, mini, maxi, cobweb lace,
Estee Lauder's White Linen.

Fragmented memories,
valueless, antique collection.
Nothing to bequeath, no legatee.
No pun intended.

After Dinner below Hungry Hill

Yellow halo topping Hungry Hill
the sky streaked with turquoise.
Then a molten run, sliding
into an electro plated sea.
And the boats are touched with gold leaf,
in hallmarked settings; Saoirse, Tir n' org,
Anam Cara, their golden safety chains
linked to anchors, drifting down.
Cottages and beasts encrust the hillside.
Stones on the lapping shoreline,
white gold, woven with samphire.

The ruined house, black against the sky,
the crumbling chimneys sprouting
flamed willow herbs, the last rays
fingering in through the broken frame,
lighting on the mouldering painting
of the Virgin, her blue robes speckled
with green, her moulding etched with gilt.
Beyond the house, the gilded fulmars
feather the cliffs.

^

Biography

Maureen is a late starter. Born in England but like most people, of Irish ancestory. Ireland is her favourite country. She has been helped by the Irish Landmark Trust to enable her to write while visiting. Now retired from Durham University, she is keen on walking, reading, music, wine and cooking for family and friends. Sounds like an advert for a lonley hearts column - however she already has a long suffering husband. She has had some competition success with prizes for poetry and short stories. She is also a regular contributor to the Durham Town and Country Magazine on a variety of subjects, and has been published in a recent Poetry Ireland Review.