Frost

Crisp white morning. Frost coats the bushes,

the trees. Crunchy grass under foot.

The stars fade into the pale sky while the sun

creeps up over the rooftops. Later blue will

erupt as the beams warm the air. Robin Redbreast

and Master Greentit challenge each other to a crust

in front of the French windows. The chime is still

on the roof beam over the terrace, immobile.

Intricate patterns snake up the gate, ephemeral art

swept by the midday thaw. Droplets glisten on

the leaves of he evergreens. The mercury edges up

and stops, numb.

At teatimme the light has ebbed away and the frost

sneaks back over the garden

©Susan Baury Rouchard

Christmas is over

The Christmas tree is sitting

in the garden. Some needles

shed on the living room floor,

in front of the fire.

The baubles came off reluctantly,

clinging onto the branches.

The Bavarian soldiers still hanging

proudly. The fairies' heads drooping.

All reconciled to their fate of being

stored away in their boxes.

The holiday season is discarded,

but not forgotten, still burning

comfortably in our hearts. Time

to make way for the New Year.

Fresh beginnings. The crocuses

are already snaking up from

the frosty blades. The daffodils 

stems are rising in defiance

of the cold bite. Everyday I watch

the scortching sun pound down

on the players in Australia. It thaws

my bones and frees my spirit. And

the pen runs away with the ink and

soaks the page with thoughts.

©Susan Baury Rouchard

On the Train

I turn the ticket man
at the station into a sheik.
Surrounded by his wives
and eunuchs, he strolls in
his gardens.

Around the spouting fountains,
dolphins in the waves, lemon
orange and passion fruit enamour
the air with their sweet
scents.

The sheik in his babouche
sits on a stone bench,
launches his hand full
of seeds to the white
doves.

They clatter from the rooftops
down the tropical creeper
onto the dolphins and across
the lawns.

The train’s squeaking and sway
gently rocks my contemplation.
The slow wheels roll on the
rails at a snail pace.

So my sheik keeps me company
on my way across the map.

©Susan Baury Rouchard

Written in November 2014
from London to Stratford.

You will never see the sky again.
We shall not quarrel anymore.
You have set yourself free, left me
behind to experience
the aches of solitude,
and seeing the sun sink
beyond the roofs.
You took up all the room
but it was not your fault.
I cowered, hidden away
in the eaves, grabbing at crumbs.
You would fill the kitchen
with words and I would hurry
out of sight, not wanted,
no place for me.

©Susan Baury Rouchard

Spring

The cherry tree in full bloom in the rising sun
deserves a picture so I rush out and take it.
To cherish in Winter when the dark wet cold
sets in and my heart is sunken.

©Susan Baury Rouchard

To my Daughter

She is sailing without the wind,
bobbing on the waves.
Without direction she bales
out onto a smaller raft.
Deadlines on the horizon 
closing in.

What can I do to help her ?
She relies on us but in her mind
a storm struggles
with the sunlight.

Just out of reach the goals she sets
herself flounder with the dusk.
A long time will pass and once again
her eyes will open on the wonders
of the world.

©Susan Baury Rouchard

Drizzle steadily coming down.
What if I could jump ship
and be folded into the arms
of oblivion. What if we could
spend our time walking
perusing the landscape under
a benevolent sky.

What if we
didn't have to think
about day in, day out;
sink into a cosy bed
sleep the time away
Listen to music and dream
our lives astray.

What if the sun lightened
every moment. The robin
and the wagtail brighten
the silence. An eternal spring day.

©Susan Baury Rouchard

a House, a Haven

A house set in the hills
with blooming hollyhocks
and sweet lavender.
The pool, a fairy-tale mirror
laid in friezed stone.
You can sit in the shade
or bask in the sun.
You can free your thoughts
and explore your mind
among the woods nearby.

Treading on bright moss,
the horizon the limit.
The meadow stretching far.
The goats bleating
in the barn.

©Susan Baury Rouchard

Paragram Anthology

I've just been published in the Paragram Anthology with my poem
My Father in my bones.
my writing buddie Marilyn Hammick has also been chosen for two of her poems.
http://para-gram.com/

It should be available on Amazon shortly.

Storm

The rolling rumble

choked my lungs.

Through the glass pane,

the sky lit up,

a wave of white light.

The stars were thinking

beyond cloudless heavens.

No air seeped through

the barricade of shutters.

No reprieve from damp heat.

The downpour came and went.

And when darting daytime broke

only sparse puddles

circled the house,

had settled on the bench and chairs.

©Susan Baury Rouchard