Poetry Rosemary Johnson

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: ROSEMARY JOHNSON

Rosemary’s debut novella, Source, won the New Fictions Prize in 2020 and was published by Story Machines in 2021. Her short story, The Others, was published by MIROnline in March 2022. Rosemary has completed a debut novel, The Children of Angels' Eyrie, about a century of conflict as seen through the eyes of two families who live in the same house in Yorkshire, 100 years apart. Her short story collection, Dismantling the Catapult, is nearing completion. Rosemary is the editor of The Vixen, a magazine of art and lit. She is from Belfast but these days she is based in Harrogate, North Yorkshire, where she lives with her family.

Nature Morte

The little sparrow flits from table to table Feasting on brioche, eating cake, Mocking the flamboyant chateau Which reigns above the slopes of vines. A horse drawn cart still ploughs the timeless furrows Bees hover over the casual beauty of yellow roses.

On a terrace by a man-made lake -Otters at leisure in the tricking water, moorhens peep –We sip our wine. Last year’s vintage sings its song Of minerals, stones, petals, pines, As tendrils of smoke drift in from the forest.

The roses are planted to signal the presence of fungus, But can a rose predict a hailstorm That a month before almost destroyed the harvest? Or this searing summer heat, breaking all records, Setting the pines to spontaneously to combust.

The sparrow flits, its beak apape, gasping, Panicked, seeking purer, cooler air. It is distressing to watch this suffering Though still we drink as forests burn We absolve ourselves in a toast to rain.

It is only the hare who rises up in the vineyard, Fists fighting in vain the flaming sky. The evening sun sets scarlet, bloodied, crimson, Falling like the end notes of earth’s evensong. Awakened early in a smoky room, Half expecting evacuation. Coffee, brioche, The air borne wings the mercy dash Of fighter planes flying through acrid fumes.

No flitting wings, no innocent thieving, Over the lake, white ashes falling Like Pompeii, preserving – in still life – what should be living.

Let the one sparrow speak for all sparrows For all forests For all living things.

Rosemary Johnston