Janice Windle Poems

He ploughs the surface of the fertile sea,
lays nets and traps, pays out the line,
weaves his wide web beneath the glittering waves,
circles methodically.
...

I was ten when she arrived. Much too old
for dolls or Santa Claus. My Last Doll.
She was different, made in Belgium,
with eyes as brown as chocolate drops.
...

My friend married Shakespeare,
amid much ado.
I saw her last in Luton,
twenty storeys high,
...

Blocked.
Words fail.
Painful trickle
where commentary freely used to run.
...

I saw him today.
My husband. Still my husband.
Snow on the roof, they used to say.
And fire in the cellar?
...

His chin,
cleft with Y-shaped hollow
like the subtle dent
where buttocks meet with spine.
...

So many men that I shall never meet.
Eyes that will never lock with mine
an instant, in a glance that says
that I've existed just a moment
...

Why should I look back?
When I can only see
Pain I cannot numb
Because I have inflicted it;
...

Why should I look back?
When I only see
Pain I cannot numb
because I have inflicted it;
...

Waking with closed eyes
I lie with your warm thigh
pressing on my leg.
...