Swing song
The orange swing seat
sticks to her legs as she
scuffs her feet off the
bare patch of grass
kicks hard for speed.
At the top of the arc sees -
through the kitchen window -
mum leaning on the sink -
cupping just-filled mug.
On the downward swoop
her dad catches her eye,
shiny-faced, shirtless,
shawing potatoes.
Occasionally he reaches down,
pulls a pink, plump radish,
shakes off dirt, rubs his reward
on his string-tied trousers.
A pinch of salt from
the poke in his pocket,
then he crunches it
between dirt-streaked teeth.
Stalk and leaves,
tossed over-arm,
sail through the air,
crown the compost heap
with green.
Claire Urquhart grew up in Carnoustie, on the North East of Scotland. A product of the 80s Scottish education system, decent exam results and a fear of blood meant she studied law in Edinburgh where she now lives. Having discovered that she loves literature more than law, she began writing short stories and poetry in January 2021 as a cure for insomnia. Her work has been published widely including in York Literary Review, Poetry Scotland, Poets’ Republic, and New Writing Scotland
Comments