'A place of safety' by Brian Comber
as she was clearing the table
jets came to her village, low along the valley
and were beyond the next ridge as
she was lifted from the ground.
The almond grove was gone
and her family and animals were silent,
infinitely slowly, a wasp moved across a plate.
She waited under arc lights
for a two stroke to sputter into life and
kerosene lamps along the bay, faded with distance
as the boat shuddered where the currents met
and the crossing hung by a thread.
She felt the tremor of mortars
on the bleached flats, while men laughed
into 'phones, took money and taped messages to walls.
She passed her boy to women in masks and gloves,
with his greenstick arms and cough, as
she held his head from going under.
She turned a corner and found all the people she knew
going about their work, washing clothes,
playing backgammon and walked among them
passing her hand before their eyes to see if they'd blink,
she smelled grilled lamb, brick dust, her old home
and her legs buckled and her eyes rolled back.
Feverish on a bunk, still sensing the pitch and swell,
her neighbour came to sit by her, draped her shawl
around her shoulders as she shivered, told her
this is not your home, do you remember,
your mezze and cardamom tea? and
the blistering of the plastic chairs, the white flakes floating down;
her first instinct when seeing the planes, had been to wave.
The pressure in her ears falls to ten fathoms,
her neighbour sighs and becomes her fever,
makes for the olive grove and dissolves in a blast wave of heat.
jets came to her village, low along the valley
and were beyond the next ridge as
she was lifted from the ground.
The almond grove was gone
and her family and animals were silent,
infinitely slowly, a wasp moved across a plate.
She waited under arc lights
for a two stroke to sputter into life and
kerosene lamps along the bay, faded with distance
as the boat shuddered where the currents met
and the crossing hung by a thread.
She felt the tremor of mortars
on the bleached flats, while men laughed
into 'phones, took money and taped messages to walls.
She passed her boy to women in masks and gloves,
with his greenstick arms and cough, as
she held his head from going under.
She turned a corner and found all the people she knew
going about their work, washing clothes,
playing backgammon and walked among them
passing her hand before their eyes to see if they'd blink,
she smelled grilled lamb, brick dust, her old home
and her legs buckled and her eyes rolled back.
Feverish on a bunk, still sensing the pitch and swell,
her neighbour came to sit by her, draped her shawl
around her shoulders as she shivered, told her
this is not your home, do you remember,
your mezze and cardamom tea? and
the blistering of the plastic chairs, the white flakes floating down;
her first instinct when seeing the planes, had been to wave.
The pressure in her ears falls to ten fathoms,
her neighbour sighs and becomes her fever,
makes for the olive grove and dissolves in a blast wave of heat.
Brian Comber lives in Worcestershire, he writes poems and occasional short stories and has performed regularly at spoken word events in Worcester for some years. Brian has had flash fiction published in Black Pear Press (BPP) anthologies, was the winner of the Worcestershire Literary Festival's 'Story on a Card' competition in 2013 and he was runner up in the 2015 National Poetry Day Light and Shade event at Kidderminster. Brian is a member of the Worcester Writers' Circle. He has had poetry accepted for publication with Picaroon Poetry, The Beach Hut, The Gentian journal, Re-side onlinezine, Prole Poetry, Selcouth Station, Dear Reader, Wild Pressed books, Feral Journal and Contour online magazine. Brian is currently working with Cerasus poetry to publish a book of his poems and has had a poem accepted for a pamphlet being produced by BPP on the subject of Worcester Cathedral. He's recently experimented with a Warwickshire artist to see whether there can be a fusion between his poetry and visual images.
Brian worked in social care for many years and his experiences of working with people with mental health difficulties and people with impaired mental capacity has strongly influenced his thinking, politics and writing. He loves walking and finds that it helps when he can't think what to write. He's married to Jane who provides encouragement, a benign critical eye and almost everything else. Brian was a late starter with poetry, he wishes he'd started earlier.
Brian worked in social care for many years and his experiences of working with people with mental health difficulties and people with impaired mental capacity has strongly influenced his thinking, politics and writing. He loves walking and finds that it helps when he can't think what to write. He's married to Jane who provides encouragement, a benign critical eye and almost everything else. Brian was a late starter with poetry, he wishes he'd started earlier.