Betsy practises the eye-trick,
making two portholes of salt water,
making the room larger
and the street-lamp blurry,
glitter-blurry. She practises
the ear-trick, hands sealing
their channels, so the sea drums
and swells inside her,
taking her to New York,
quicker than the QE2
and whenever she pleases.
And the mouth-trick, twisting
the sob to a sigh, the sigh
to a sea-breeze, the breeze
to an angel-hand which strums
the autoharp there on the locker
beside her. She practises
the finger-trick, softly, so softly
that no one will hear her.
If the bedsprings creak
the other girls will wake
and betray her. Matron
will punish the fingers
with her twelve-inch ruler.
But the smell-trick — that’s the one
she likes best — her mother
lives in the empty crystal bottle
she’d stowed away in her sea-trunk.
Its silk-covered bulb
and crimson toggle
are Mother’s dress.
The perfume is her spirit.
If she presses the pump,
the scent is still there.
A stately lady glides to the bedside
to stroke her hot forehead
cool again. And to kiss her.
Robert Saxton
Camping on the Moon
It’s bedtime, and I’m in disgrace
with Micro Man and Pudding Face.
I’ve no Mohicans in my sights —
I’ve forfeited my story rights.
No jellyfish kiss has plopped my cheek,
making the friendly floorboard creak.
The nightlight’s off, the landing’s dark.
Outside I hear the werewolves bark.
I’m a castaway in a fool’s lagoon.
I’m camping on the moon.
A rain-soaked pillow slaps my face —
piss-awful weather, even for space.
Disaster and Bollocks — Gemini —
swing in their orbit, safe and dry.
The stars are needles, fierce and cold.
I’m a slave at market, soiled, unsold.
Next door the Joneses rattle their bed,
moaning and swearing like the living dead.
I’m wide awake in a cruel cartoon.
I’m camping on the moon.
Downstairs I hear the Bitchlings start,
the clan the alien tore apart.
I’m a scar, an itch, a boil, a leak.
I cost a hundred pounds a week.
A mastodon of giant girth,
I’ve waddled here to threaten Earth.
I’m swimming in the bed I’ve wet.
I’m an animal — so call the vet,
I’m choking to death on a giant spoon.
I’m camping on the moon.

ANTOINETTE FAWCETT is half Dutch and has lived and worked in China, Holland, Singapore and Norway. She now teaches English as a foreign language in Cumbria.

©Copyright of this poem remains with the poet: please do not download or republish without permission.

top ^