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Tag Archives: Hasland

I Am Doing This For You

15 Saturday Jul 2017

Posted by Worldly Winds in Childhood Memories, Death, Poetry

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

Alex Carr-Malcolm poet, Alexandra Carr-Malcolm poetry, cancer, Chesterfield, death, Hasland, poetry, St Paul's Church Hasland, Worldly Winds poetry, writing

St Paul's

I remember you…

Your tiny frame full of fearlessness,

teaching the universe,

the ways of the warrior.

 

We met in the church choir;

I was eight and you were six.

I am white and you were black,

already born to fight life’s prejudice.

 

Even then I was frightened;

cancer had claimed so many,

but they were old,

and you were six.

 

Do you remember the wedding?

Suited and booted, in cassock and gown,

you lifted your wig,

and the horror it caused.

 

I was only eight,

but I prayed for days and nights,

that God would give me your cancer,

and let you live…

He never did.

 

I heard your story, at the end,

it hurt for you to be held,

your mummy and daddy wept

whilst you comforted them.

 

You asked them not to cry,

and you said you’d be alright.

You never came back to choir.

Not long after, you died.

 

It was at this very time,

I stopped believing in God,

he never answered my prayer,

your prayer, or theirs.

 

I still remember you…

your tiny frame full of fearlessness,

and how we giggled as girls,

when you doffed your wig to the world.

 

© I am doing this for you 16.06.2014

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Photo Credit: Dave Bevishttp://www.drbevis.demon.co.uk/CILAAA01.htm

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Hazelhurst

04 Tuesday Dec 2012

Posted by Worldly Winds in Longing & Waiting, Love, Poetry

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

Alexandra Carr-Malcolm, childhood home, Derbyshire, Hasland, Hazelhurst, homesick, longing, memories, poetry, Victorian architecture

Hazlehurst

 

 

 

 

 

 

I could never live,

in a red brick house,

with frilly nets,

that pucker and flounce.

 

With rooms so square,

shaped like a box;

oh no! not me,

give me stone and rocks.

 

Victorian aged,

with features so old

flag stone floors,

that strike up the cold.

 

Stone inglenook fires,

glowing embers and coal,

black basalt hearth,

to bear my soles.

 

Mullioned windows,

shutters and sash,

transom light, stained,

carved fine mountain ash.

 

A long sweeping drive,

to a panelled oak door,

proud portico porch,

chequerboard floor.

 

Orchard and lawns,

domed topiary box,

walled kitchen garden,

growing herbs, veg, and stocks.

 

That’s my dream house,

from my sepia past,

how I long to be there,

and remain everlast.

 

 

© Hazelhurst 04.12.2012

By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

 

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