Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2010


by Rachel Powell

“Well, quite.” he says from his chair,
Ensconced in the corner and moulded to his form.
The blinds, blanched from daily glare
Hide a grey sky emptying its contents in a steady stream.
“It’ll be over in an hour or so”, he says.

Darling, Street Art, Hardy and Wagner
All distract me from the procession of the minutes,
And five o’clock comes as a surprise.
The grandfather reminds us of its presence,
Its stately clunk pushing the afternoon

On. I return home having achieved nothing,
Read the paper, have a bath.
Dinner at eight, walk the dog at half past.
Television, tea, bed, cereal,
Frosty morning, crowded bus, ten past nine.

And all the while my wearisome waltz
Is partnered by time’s dogged footwork,
A routine honed yet far from perfect,
Vulnerable to a foot I misplace, and
My partner falls from view.

Added: 28.12.2009

Judges' comments on this poem


Sad, oppressive little poem until the very last line which allows you to think "Go on, finally break away". I hope she does!