Marie-Therese Taylor was a librarian in Edinburgh, Fife and the northeast of Scotland, and now lives in Glasgow. Her poems and short stories have appeared in print and online in a number of places, including Northwords Now, Glasgow Review of Books, Glasgow Women’s Library’s Mixing the Colours, and Football Memories. She has four children who still talk to her, and she still interrupts.
Rains January 2016
These once were fields.
Now small tides lap soft over land
sunk beneath an unmapped lake
Cattle float comically upended
a mare and foal - pie-balled balloons
a ewe, her lambs at once defended
inside a fleece clogged useless
as a twisted umbrella in this rain
Roads are mocked
navigable only by boat.
Rivers disregard their boundaries,
breaching walls of homes that
no one wants to leave.
What, you ask, is left to save
save paper memories
soiled in the creeping sludge,
and soft furnishings
caught in the slick?
In churches and halls they gather
Cleanse me from my sin
Oh wash me, I shall be whiter than snow.
First published in Northwords Now (Autumn 2016)