re Pumpkin Moon

Chases my inky form or am I following it?
I’m reminded of pumpkin moon lodged
in Omoba sky; under which my young

fanny was fingered by Uncle Innocent’s paws.
On frayed mat in a camphor tinged room,
I wriggled; bewildered, until my movements
became bound by the spell of magic moon.

Now: I imagine pumpkin moon has the power
to reach into my skull and crack its wall,
scattering the pips of dormant gloom. It near-
succeeds, tugging the corners of Vaselined lips.

Catherine Mark

re Countdown

Today’s training was an easy 2-hour amble... the wind down (in terms of training) before the big day next Sunday (23/5). Through a local forest land, it was lovely walking through the embrace of the warmish May sun among the chorus of chirping birds. I must say that after almost two months of active training and one month of fundraising, I am really excited about next week’s walk. So far, I’ve raised between £450 and £500 (to be split between two charities)... quite a way off from my £1000 goal. But as I started my fundraising efforts quite late to meet this optimistic target, I’m hoping to pick up some last minute donations over the next few weeks. Also, it’s likely that I will probably commit to another event in August/September to raise the difference in donations needed to hit the £1000 mark for this year’s fundraising goals. Well, I will be writing again and posting some photos on the other side of the walk. Many thanks for all your well wishes, support and donations.

Catherine

ps If any of you are in the Wirral area... I'll be the one in the red Action Aid T-shirt... do wave or come over and say 'hello'!

POEM: Cube of blue

In this aquarium room;

metallic bile rises

- Yvonne’s death at

thirty-five, a red-ribbon noose,

marriage meltdown - loss

climbs on loss, like rats

scrabbling on rats

in this blue cube...

where the only sweetness

rising is the scent

of sawdust, a reminder of a time

before cubed blue.

Catherine Mark

POEM: Last laugh

Last laugh

The goat with a slit throat,

tongue lolls, blood droplets

form burnt skin blisters

on baked Omoba soil.

My witchdoctor grandfather

cuts up the carcass, spending hours

cleaning, praying and cutting

as the stink of goat douses the air.

Seven-year-old eyes transfixed

by the smirk on the goat’s face.

This sufferer with mirth

as his song – has he breathed

his last chuckle, or has Imo miri

thrown him a lifeline?

*Imo miri - God of the Sea

Do stay connected with my Wirral Walk training updates HERE. This week's entry is titled 'Upping the ante' :)