poems

Notes from a Carmarthenshire landlady

And, in the kitchen, hens are making cupcakes,
spooning the mixture into paper cases,
tasting it, licking fingers, a wooden spoon.

Hens unpack the Tesco order, just arrived,
stack the fridge, lay sliced loaves, bricks on the dresser,
fenced with jars and bottles, jam, honey, ketchup,

marmalade, mayonnaise, (low calorie), and
brown sauce. These are organised hens. They come from
Port Talbot, driving smart and not-so-smart cars,

sardined into our drive. Pink tutus, tee-shirts,
(matching), tiaras, packets of pink balloons,
awaiting the puff of twenty four maidens,

the surprise larger-than-life blow up male doll,
his nakedness covered by leopardskin briefs,
all these spill from boxes. In flipflops, high heels

and beaded slippers, rainbow painted toenails
bedecked with silver rings, hens wander the lane,
mobiles held high, hunting elusive signals.

You go down, explain meters, heating controls,
graze on the green ethos, know that all weekend
the timer will be on constant, thermostat

at max, doors and windows wide open, your guests
lightly dressed for the tropics. On Saturday
evening, a bus descends the lane, straddling

the grassy middle, pulls in, reverses,
stays, engine on, for forty five minutes,
while hens get ready, preen, assemble.

Sometime around three or four the process
is repeated; hens - some happy, some weepy
- all well watered, are decanted into
your coop. Monday, late afternoon, you scoop up
bags of bedding, cases of empties piled high
outside and you skim the guestbook entry

…best weekend of my life…can't wait to come back
to West Wales, again, as Mrs Jones.…