Maggie Butt

This Moment

Sunlight through leaves throws dappled shadows on the wall;
the telephone sighs to rest  in its cradle, shifts to get comfortable;
fish defrosts on the work-top, drips pensively onto the plate;
the cat turns, skirts an unseen obstacle, starts to wash its ears;
I call a rushed good-bye while thinking of something else:
the un-hung washing, un-paid bill, un-lived dream,
the headlights which raked the ceiling of my childhood room.

Ellis Island, New York

We grip the frozen handrail of the ferry,
watch the waters churn their silver song.
 
The seagulls teach their young to ride
the wind, hover at head-height, hoping
 
for scraps, catching them in flight, tasting
anticipation in this welcome-harbour’s air.
 
Now just us tourists, seeing once-removed
through camera’s lens, knowing how memory
 
can trick and lie. But every immigrant is here
behind our eyes, dressed in their desperation
 
and their optimism; watching the raised arm
of liberty (her face the sculptor¹s mother’s ­
 
who better to open the door to this new home?)
They search the faces for a hint of those left behind:
 
see how she flicks her hair, the set of his
shoulders, tap of her fingers, curve of his head.
 
The boat hull bumps and tears at  wooden piers
of Ellis Island, they clutch the rails, fling
 
their old life to the tide, climb gang-plank
to a land which seems to roll and heave,
 
lift ashore their bundled clothes and words
the recipes and songs, tucking them close
 
as gold coins sewn into the hems of petticoats
wrapped with memories like an old woollen shawl.

Travelling Fair

The shock of the impossible. It folds!
That strident, swirling, screaming metal
folds like obedient fabric, fitting lorry
like a foot within a shoe. A carousel,
a chair-swing, ghost-train, tunnel
of love, each neatly telescoped
onto the back of gaily painted truck;
so memory folds and wraps the past
its long and lovely pocketed moments.