The Picture in Front

This one day a woman
sick of arranging cutlery and laundry
thought to wave a napkin in the air
hail the sky and be whisked

Away
(if only to the neighbouring town)

Finding herself in an empty café
she was caught staring outside
an anchor, centre of the town
Unfamiliar

But what a fine shape! and noble!
Her eyes stuck

Out came a pen and a glass of water
the napkin, too

So the anchor was drawn with it,
the differently coloured bridges
and differently coloured houses.

Flicking her hair in youthful artistry
(she imagined)

The woman stayed put in the town
a day, a month, a year.

Everyone there
lit candles and put music on before dinner.

Baby Indy

'Baby Indy' Watercolour on paper 2013

‘Baby Indy’
Watercolour on paper
2013

I accept portrait commissions with great alacrity! Contact me if at all interested. I use a myriad of different styles and mediums in order to suit the person, and have no fixed price.

camilla.eustance@hotmail.com

Cheers!

The Current Moment


A small in pink and an old in blue

sky-blue, upside-down

follow the dog through the lane

 

I get moved along the table

with the arrival of more

this small in grey and the old in blue

 

This seat is colder and

the music is louder

away from the window, I can’t see

 

I ate before at the base of a monument:

people I never knew died

building a bridge I’ll never climb

 

Now I am tired

and will soon catch the train

having spent the morning

 

In search of pebbles and strangers,

both of which

I found.

The Jarrah Table



At night I don’t hear the whales anymore

they used to sing, and float
magnificent,
translucent
around the foot of my bed

or around the caves in my head

so I could always sleep
in the truth of home.

Tap the piano keys. Bang them,
place your entire palms on the rectangular ivory fingers
and crash, explode your feelings out

in a glorious, cathartic drone

Please, bring me back
to the steady 5 o’clock days
where my father’s thoughts
echoed in notes

around the shadows in our house
and in the shadows hiding,
content

under the solid Jarrah table.

I rejoice in a group
of four knitted souls
brought together by candles
and a meal

I now think of three,
and it makes my face crumple

Like the paper I threw away
every time I tried
to write myself
a letter.
So now, now that I am more
than a mere crescent moon

but less than full

it’s all I can do, some evenings,
to pick up the prettiest autumn leaves

and hold them tender
in my two pockets,
clutching also

to a postcard from Paris in the 60’s

whilst

The apple crumble topping, sits,
pleasantly, in that constant site of destruction

reminding me of ovens, your hugs
Hermione the cat

and the thick, magnanimous
grape vine
wrapping its arms around us

every day of the year.