Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Her poem ‘A Rose For Gaza’ was shortlisted for the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition 2014. This and many other poems, have been widely published in anthologies and journals such as Vagabond Press, Apogee, Firewords, Indie Soleil, Light Journal and Snapdragon.
The accordion player was from Eastern Europe.
He was there each morning
on the promenade in the south of Spain,
He plays popular songs
with an unremitting plastic smile.
A little further along
sits the beggar with no legs.
He is also from Eastern Europe.
He sits there every day
with an unremitting plastic smile
and a cardboard sign
written in English and Spanish.
I wonder what lit the fuse
to set them off on their incredible journey
into the unknown.
I wonder if the smiles fade on the way back
to their new homes.
I wonder if the dreams have faded
or whether they scrape along
as the men scrape along.
Or perhaps they’re as vibrant as ever,
full of hope,
surviving in the mild winters,
ready to blossom like the cherry trees
in the spring.
First published in New Reader Magazine, March 2018
It was a beautiful village,
the sun was shining,
the mountain air pure,
a perfect place for a coffee.
We could see two cafes,
but the first we tried was closed,
closed for a while by the looks.
The second looked hopeful
with tables and chairs outside
but the door was locked.
An elderly man came over and explained.
that it only opened at weekends.
The other had closed because
the people had left the village.
They all want to live in the town,
he told us
and now the houses are empty
and there are just a few tourists
who come at weekends to drink a coffee
or a beer.
He told us to sit at a table
and went into a house
across the street
and returned with a tray
and three good French coffees
made in his own kitchen.
So we sat in the sunshine
breathing in the pure mountain air,
a perfect place for a coffee
with our new friend.
First published in Erothanatos, Vol 2, Issue 4, October 2018
I watched the man crossing the path
underneath the cascade of the waterfall.
It had been part of the route wine was carried
from the high lands, to be sold on the coast.
Back in the old days, that was.
But the old days weren’t very long ago.
He seemed confident
as he placed a foot carefully
in each of the footholds
hacked into the precipitous rock face.
He gripped the thick metal hawser
attached to the rock with strong
Gripped it firmly
and proceeded slowly
one step at a time.
I had a camera
and I thought
that it was a picture he would like to have
when he was dry and safe back on terra firma.
Then I thought,
suppose he falls,
falls into the waves,
to be smashed against the rocks
I didn’t want to have such a picture,
a picture of someone’s last moments
and I thought,
to take it
may jinx his journey
and even cause him to fall.
So I never took the picture.
But it made no difference.
The man fell anyway.
First published in Bold + Italic, Issue 2, 2018
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Poetry in this post: © Lynn White
Published with the permission of Lynn White