For a hug
to curl at his side in the night, spoon-backed,
not for his dawn snores
but for him to fix
Can I borrow your husband,
telling stories embellished with time, shared memories,
not his toothbrush,
but his fingertips
Can I borrow your wisdom, Mister?
Your take on life
to discuss the Sunday papers and world affairs,
not watching sport
or sorting socks
like a wife.
Mary Bourne is a former midwife, who is a professional artist with a B.A. in Fine Arts – as well as a poet. Her poems have a wide range, from turning a pot, caressing the rim “moist like a kiss”, to her childhood on a farm, teasing both animals and farm labourers, and speaking to the “birth mother” who gave her away for adoption. There are also poems about Florence, Marrakech and Goa, as well as the sands of Norfolk and cliff paths of Cornwall.