follow us on Facebook

The Linnet's Wings

Monday Morning Blues by Tina Cole

Everyone else is out 

just me and these stained shirt sleeves

dangling from the laundry box,

when a disembodied tune 




evokes a liquid memory 

not edgy or rectangular 

like words that were shouted, 

but one that croons,  I will sing my own song,




and something almost forgotten

the forbidden box with tortoiseshell arm 

traversing black water, undulating to the centre 

then jumping back as if stung, squatting as if embarrassed.




Precious planets banded by concentric rings,

housed in port-holed paper sleeves 

so fragile, never to be touched

yet the clatter of shellack denied that.




A fat needle pinpointing the matter,

cutting through rings of dark water 

an endless spiralling groove at 78r.p.m.

His Masters Voice the papered eye.




Songs that held her 

in a cracked discordant thrall

while neighbours banged 

she rhumbaed, turned up the volume,

laughed at dust and disorder.



The Linnets Wings