E.A Colquitt — The Everyday

E.A Colquitt is based in the north of England. Currently working on her first novel, she is a graduate of Lancaster University and her favourite thing is being happy.

You can check out her blog HERE.

Gift Shop

Once upon a cloudy day in town, the heavens opened

And I dived

Straight through the nearest shining doorway.

Inside was dull – and small – no bigger than a shed

Swept well; my rain-licked heels

Imprinted little hoof prints on the wooden floor.

‘It’s all okay,’ the owner said. ‘Come in, come in. Choose anything.’

He took my arm. We toured the shelves

Of glimmering ornaments: one small bronze bell

That rang for just a few – and one that rang for all,

But only in December.

‘Just take your time,’ the owner said. ‘You’ll know it when you see it.’

A hall of mirror-baubles showed

My angles: here uglier, there prettier,

And each looked out from where I really was.

But there it was! The spark, on bark, of winter sun:

Red and brown and pointed bronze. I moved to pay –

‘No, no! No need,’ the owner said,

‘For silver, gold. Gifts are not sold.’

He turned me to the glass-paned door and I found myself outside,

The shopfront boarded up in my wake. But sometimes

When I walk around my town, I see the copper glint

On dog leads in the café, ears in the library.

And then I smile,

Pick up my burnished pen,

And note the present.

Snow Day

You know before you pull the curtains back.

The radio, the birds outside…

Each one of your alarms

Is cushioned in a stillness

Made up of winter light.

The afternoon is chaos.

Hot drinks

Have braced you for the skirmish in the snow

But no.

It’s crawling down your coat,

The ice, behind your back

To find your spine

and bite and

bite and

bite.

Too soon, too soon the darkness falls

And with it blows the wind.

Dim the lamps and you’ll still see

The polar gift is flying free

Around the night…

Twisting

And turning

In a flurry of fright.