Image: © Courtesy of Manchester City Galleries
North Star
(a e h i l n o r s t anagram)
Terns strain as east sleet threatens,
it thrashes these northern shores
on seasonal rotation. Stern, here.
As the sea lathers, the inlet silts,
its islet less isle, its saline isolation
stolen as the straits start to thin.
See those tell-tales? Let’s loosen the sheet,
reel it in, stash the sail, lash the tiller,
ease her onto the stones, the shells, tie on.
I taste rain on the air, hints that it’s near,
then stare at the hills, the harsh terrain
so soon torn – let’s retreat.
There on the heath, a tree, shelter. See?
Hares hasten to holes in the soil at its roots,
nose into these near-interior lairs, nestle.
The earth’s strata is sheer here: ashen shale,
teal-tint slate at a slant. I sit on a heather throne,
as I listen to the hail, thrill at the stars, rest.
Sometimes It Snows In May
for Amanda, and Andrew
An angel of sorts pipes up
as we blink from dark high church
to bright high sun, blame
our tears on sudden blindness.
Blackbird in the cherry out front,
opposite the Ring O’Bells, where we
heard time called more than once.
Time has been called once more.
After the wake, we went downhill.
We found the footprint of our school
and didn’t know what to do with it.
We climbed ghost steps to a ghost entrance,
kicked crumbling concrete, stamped
the scuffed outline of a locker block,
remembered queuing for class
together, us three, except now
it’s us two, home to see off our friend,
who stayed. Who’d have thought this,
back then, stood in the stairwell, uniformed,
bitching about Tiffany’s jumper dress?
All gone: the dress, the uniforms, the stairs,
the lockers, the entrance, the school,
you. Just us two kicking concrete, drunk
under blue skies, off to get drunker.
Lunar Mare
Out at sea, the moon casts shadows.
We watch as we get ahead of ourselves,
hunched shoulders and unfurled sails
silhouetted on the surface we soon break.
Our tell-tales twitch and the tiller pulls
at the tide change, sudden, wind change, wild
white horses flick spindrift manes our way,
make off into the night as we bolt on blind.
Our light, our moon, moved in that moment –
in that blink of an eye. Not a second to spare now:
let loose the sheet, reel in, lash down, look up,
switch sides, stash your winch, and breathe.
Out at sea, the moon casts shadows.
We watch as they slip by on the water.
____
Sarah-Clare Conlon has been writer-in-residence at Ilkley Literature Festival, Saul Hay Gallery and Victoria Baths in Manchester, where she lives and works as a magazine editor. She was longlisted for the National Poetry Competition 2024 and shortlisted for the Bridport Prize 2020. Her latest book, Wanderland (Red Ceilings Press), is a Poetry Book Society Summer 2025 Listing and has been nominated for the Wainwright Prize. It follows limited-edition poetry pamphlets Lune (Red Ceilings Press), Using Language (Invisible Hand Press) and cache-cache (Contraband), and prose collection Marine Drive (Broken Sleep Books).