Birthplace of the Resistance
by Clara Challoner Walker
In soft vanilla, melted morning dew,
Encouraged by a tender velvet blow,
Hydrangeas foam and froth in pastel cool
And hollyhocks stretch taut in rattling row.
A melon’s papier maché shell keeps safe
Within her orange flesh, eternal fla me .
A yellow acrid mist of old betrayal
Excoriates with bitter, barbed-wire shame.
Electric swallows’ arcs shred ozone clear,
Green potagers ruled corrugated straight,
A broken family refused to hear,
While soaring buzzards’ orange eyes predate.
Three Messieurs’ spades with rusty blades sharp tipped
Their filigree Mesdames sit steely lipped.
Clara Challoner Walker, the mother of two grown up children, cast aside the corporate life in January this year, to become a writer. She divides her time between Yorkshire and The Charente, locations which have so far inspired a novel, several poems and a couple of short stories. She has four cats, loves knitting and reading.