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Best Poems Written by Maggie Huscroft

Below are the all-time best Maggie Huscroft poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Details | Maggie Huscroft Poem

Tadpoling Parts 1 and 2

part 1 

We bend low under over-hanging branches
lit by reflected river-light gently shifting. 
Our boots suck the muddy bank.
We wade into clear water
the dappled up-light playing 
on our  serious faces.
Intent on our task
hands plunge. 
Cold-shocked I gasp.
You hold your jar steady.
I scoop mine.
Triumphant in a shower of icy prisms 
we hold our prizes aloft,
laughing and shouting,
water streaming down our arms,
jars teeming with tadpoles.
Faces pressed close 
to these underwater worlds,
we stand transfixed.
Each reflects a small disc
of sparkling  sky.

part 2 

April trees rake scudding clouds.
Far away farm dogs bark
at wind-snatched shouts 
of bird-nesting boys.
Somewhere, a cuckoo calls.

In the back garden
a blackbird stakes out his territory.
Ignoring him the cat purrs,
yawning in the sun.

While unnoticed 
on the garden table
beside a upturned jar, 
a sprinkling
of flattened tadpoles
commas
drying in the sun.

The bored cat
saunters by,
her tail held high
in the shape 
of a question mark.

Details | Maggie Huscroft Poem

I Must Go Down To the Sea Again

I must go down to the sea again,
My face turned towards the sky
With wind-snatched sounds from the beach below
And above, the seagull’s cry.

Let me walk along the cliff again. 
Let me learn into the gale.
See the breakers as they curl and crash
Hear the sound of the shifting shale.

Let me lie in the cliff-top grass again.
Let me hear the singing sand,
Feel the sting of the wind-whipped dunes
And walk the long sea strand.
   
I must go down to the sea again,
So I can say ‘good bye’
And feel the salt spray on my face
Once more before I die.





Written for Tracy Decker’s “Inspired by the Masters” contest.
First line has been taken from John Masefield's lovely poem.

Details | Maggie Huscroft Poem

Twilight Sea

As evening falls and whispers at my door
The tipsy moon leaves shadows in my wake.
I hear the sound of restless waves that break
And blend together magic as they pour
Their light into the sky, so stars awake.

In crepuscule the earth begins to make
The sea-stars glint, a million lights or more.
Delicious colours wash another shore
Where rainbow breakers ripple like a snake
And sea-sewn prisms linger evermore.

Details | Maggie Huscroft Poem

Not All Is Lost

Not all is lost.
In rotting wood,
where salamanders
hibernate, 
creatures plunder 
fallen treasures. 
Under the garden chair, 
a pair 
of summer shoes lie - 
abandoned? 
Not all roses die 
when summer goes.
Somewhere a rose
is blooming still, 
waiting to be found.

Details | Maggie Huscroft Poem

Fresh Grass Sonnet

I said that I would stay for evermore,
And shut my heart away where no one sees
But now I stand beside the open door
Here in the morning sun, to feel the breeze

With scents of flowers wafting down the hall.
And dancing motes of dust in sunbeams where
Their slanting fingers shine. I still recall
That far-off morning, and the scented air.
 
My heart escapes to where the birds still sing
But dreams no more of that which might have been.
I seek a future fate for time to bring
Fields of new-grown grass, fresh and emerald green.
 
Pastures new and painted with a different hue
Now with the world remade so bright and true

Details | Maggie Huscroft Poem

Clutter Clearing

Attack the clutter
In the attic pieces of life
And bits of me
So much clutter, sorting through
Old letters flutter
Unwanted, unread
Daring me to show I care
To reach through time
So dust-dimmed ink
Can speak again.
“Into the sack with you.
I have a job to do”

There’s all this papier maché
A flaming crown with snake entwined
I was the wicked queen
One Halloween
Daniel was a devil
Here are his horns
And a tail in a paper bag
Too good to throw
But this other stuff can go.
Made from the Financial Times
Significantly pink, a gun
So many things begun


I mutter “So long, adieu
This day of clearing clutter
Is so long overdue”
Now that could be a poem
And, right on cue
From a stack of boxes
A sheaf of paper slithers down
Littering the floor
I gather up the poems
Like a gleaner in the field
Picking out choice phrases
And, sitting among the boxes
I read them all
then put them back

Old photographs reproach me
Unsorted, stuffed in envelopes
Waiting for something
Or someone
Who never came
Adieu adieu
Wait, here’s a name
“To Mary
With love from Freddy.
I am in the back row
Second from left”

A group of smiling boys
Dressed as soldiers
Captured
By the camera’s shutter
A sixtieth of a second, in 1942
All dead now
adieu adieu
So much clutter
There’s so much time
Spent sorting through
And in the plan-chest
So many plans
Pause to reminisce
Remember this?
Posters made for Art School films
Drawings, prints and paintings
They call to me
But I am determined
I put them in the sack
Pieces of life and bits of me
So much clutter,
And when I’m through
I’ll have some space
To move
Adieu

Details | Maggie Huscroft Poem

Night Watch

The harsh winds snarl and bite like fighting dogs.
No pity in this bull-black bitter night.
No stars nor moon can pierce the city fog.
No shelter saves the beggar from his plight.

The winds whip swirling grit and stinging grime.
Mad demons breathe out sour tasting wrath,
And wine red sky now marks the passing time
When, waking widows mourn the hour of death.

Although  the sulphurous gusts still groan and howl,
The night begins to fade for dawn's debut
While roaming dogs bare yellow teeth and growl
As smoky shadows slink through trembling dew.
 
The daybreak chimes, and morning sweetly sings,
Retreating night’s outshone by brighter things.

Details | Maggie Huscroft Poem

One of Us Is Drowning - Palindrome

the more I love
the less I say. 
no speech 
out of reach
but I can see
on the sea,
like flotsam 
drifting away, 
one of us is 
drowning! 

drowning!
one of us is 
drifting away,
like flotsam 
on the sea,
but I can see
out of reach
no speech
the less I say 
the more I love.

Details | Maggie Huscroft Poem

Whistling Jim and Meg Macauley, and How They Met

This is the tale of Whistling Jim and how he met his maiden fair.

By the shores of Richmond's river, by the shelves of sparkling water
In the shining super market, Meg Macauleey, Nimble Fingers
Nimbly checking out while dreaming, checking out the goods at Tesco 
Drifting with the tide at Tesco, drifting through her day in wonder.

Young and strong is Jim the postman as he lugs the heavy post bags 
As he lugs the bright red trolley as he rides his bright red bike.
Up the hillside rides our hero , even though his back is hurting.
Even though his arms are aching, even though he's feeling thirsty
Conscientious is our hero, for the post, it must get through

Outside the pub, there sits a maiden, Meg Macauley is her name 
She's just taking a quick lunch break, in her hand's a pint of beer.
Jim is passing, feeling thirsty and he casts a look of longing 
Such a searching look of longing  at Megs languid fingers curling
Round the foaming glass of beer Meg Macauley, Languid Fingers 
Toying with her glass of beer. Oh that foaming glass of bitter
If only he could taste that bitter. but Jim can only stand and stare.
Then Meg shyly gestures to him raising up the glass of bitter 
"Fancy some then do you Postie?" Jim just can't believe his luck

Thirstily he drinks the bitter, thirstily he looks at Meg now 
She is watching him still drinking, drinking deeply of the beer
"I had better get more bitter" Jim says to the maiden fair. 
So he gets them both another and they both sip at them slowly
Smoothly both their glasses empty as their hearts fill up with love.
. 
"Do you fancy going dancing?' boldly Jim ventures to say
"Are you asking?" Meg now blushes, then she quickly looks away
"I am asking" "Then I'm coming" and so their fate is sealed forever. 
 Jim has found his dancing partner, Always Dreaming, checkout girl
For their story's just beginning so we will leave our lovers here.
Out side the pub, up on the hillside sipping pints of foaming beer. 



with humble apologies to Longfellow

Details | Maggie Huscroft Poem

Mousehole

Shifting focus from farm to stars
the drifting night begins
where listless day turns to mist.
Beyond the harbour bar
boats put out to sea.

By dawn the salty breeze 
is flecked with foam
it peppers the Postie 
as he makes his way
around the quay.
He stops to watch 
the fishing boats 
ploughing home
through  pearly sea.

And dreaming 
of what the day might bring
sleepy couples, yawning,
pad downstairs. 
In chorus all the kettles sing 
above the morning news 
of stocks and shares.
And thirstily, 
a hundred cups of tea
are raised to lips 
simultaneously.

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