I’ve had an exhausting and exhilarating day with H. J., one of my writing friends. We’ve talked almost non-stop since the moment she arrived yesterday evening, sharing our struggles with our different writing projects.

H J loves walking as much as I do, and this afternoon we had a three hour walk around Sutton Park. It was (apparently) a gift from Henry VIII to the people of Sutton Coldfield in perpetuity, so what ever else he might have done, I’m grateful to him for preserving this beautiful space. It’s one of the largest enclosed parklands in Europe – 2,400 acres of heathland, ancient woods and seven lakes. I feel so lucky to have this a mile or two away from on my doorstep.

It’s funny how a solitary activity like writing can extend one’s chances of meeting new and interesting people – anyone who’s read some of my earlier posts will know that my first residential writing course (at Arvon’s Lumb Bank Centre) opened up new opportunities not only for developing my poetry and novel writing skills, but also for creating new circles of friends. It’s been one of the unexpected joys of ‘coming out’ as a writer.

Once you’ve settled into adult life with a steady job and children about to leave home, it can be only too easy to trundle along in your comfortable rut, as horizons shrink, and you hardly notice that your eyes are fixed on the same old view. I joined the MA in Writing course because I knew I needed to be challenged – that was nearly twelve years ago and I’m still being challenged by some of my then-fellow students, and many other writers I’ve come across since then.(H.J. is one of the most challenging and inspiring -she’s a whirlwind of energy and a talented writer and artist.)

This afternoon, as we skirted muddy puddles, treading layers of last year’s leaves under beech and oak, holly and chestnut trees, I knew which of my poems I’d be posting today:

Down to the Wood

The table has grown smug. It smirks
at her, winks in the lamplight
as she lifts her fork.

It came with the house: dead wood
wedging itself between them, her
back, closer to the wall each

year as he inserts another leaf.
Mahogany. She hears it settle
dreaming of forest.

Sometimes she hushes it with damask,
the way a cloth drapes silence
over a parrot’s cage.

The fabric slides onto the floor, letting
the table hold her hands and face
in its deep sheen.

She’s lost her appetite for balanced
meals on a polished surface. She’ll
forage in the wood,

lips and fingers grained with
blackberry and juniper, no table
but the tawny floor of leaves.

This poem was first published in Poetry Nottingham International 2004, and in my own collection Single Travellers (Flarestack 2004) Since then I’ve changed the ending, and it’s this version which appears the anthology, A Twist of Malice (Grey Hen Press 2008)

I was delighted to have the chance to cut out the final stanza, as by that time, I’d felt that it weakened the whole poem. Here’s the original below in italics. See what you think!

lips and fingers grained with
blackberry and juniper, no table
but the tawny floor of leaves she’ll ruffle

with her palm and blue-veined wrist
the way she used to on the
tangle of his chest.