Eve Pearce

Eve Pearce has been an actress all her life. Born in Aberdeen she came to London at the age of 12 and regards herself as a Scottish Londoner. She started to write poetry in Katherine Gallacher´s workshops, and in 2007 John Rety published her pamphlet WOMAN IN WINTER (Hearing Eye): and in 2012 her First Collection CAPTURING SNOWFLAKES, together with a CD, LEFT TAE´ TELL THE TALE, was published by Greenheart Press.

SCHIEHALLION

 Sunday – we leave Dundee, the Jute city,
farewell the Tay. Farewell weekday toil.
He loves me. We both love Schiehallion,
beautiful mountain, perfect shape,
with a pimple on the summit.
May, but snow still on our favourite Ben.
How odd life is!  He a Kindertransport child,
me a Scot only because my mother
travelled alone and heavily pregnant
from sunny Nice to icy Aberdeen
so that her bairn would be born a quine.
In her Bible she wrote:
I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,
from whence cometh my help,
I lift mine now to Schihallion.
Tomorrow our life will drop,
flop into weekday mode.
the mountain has waited, will wait,
shining in the waters of the Tummel
for ever and aye.

GIVE ME A CHILD UNTIL HE’S SEVEN

Seamus said you couldn’t quite escape

what you’d been taught as a child.

Once a Catholic, always a Catholic and all that.

Even if in the end the bread was simply bread,

the wine simply wine, and you knew it –

something of the simple acceptance remained.

So what about the bairn sent to Sunday School

in the Gospel Hall, with the Plymouth Brethren,

even if it was, as my mother said:

because it’s the nearest.

GOD IS LOVE the only decoration on the wall,

three words difficult to understand then, age six.

I’m still trying to comprehend them

fully seventy years on.

In the beginning was the Word.

The heady language of the King James’ Bible

entered my life and has never left it –

a different text every week on a card, to learn

for next Sunday. If word perfect you got

to keep the card. My favourite:

Consider the lilies of the field,

with its beautiful windblown grasses.

I knew it to be true then that

even Solomon in all his glory….

and I know today that even Posh and Becks

in all their glory are not arrayed like one of these.

ANDROMACHE´S LULLABY

Today you are anchored to my belly

and I am rocking you, rocking you

your fine gold hair on my shoulder

a scarf of grief

They will come soon to take you away

to dash you from the highest rock…

we all know the place, overlooking Troy.

I don´t want to do this, says the Greek herald

He looks kind. I believe him.

No doubt he has children of his own.

The women are keening, beating their breasts

No words come to me, no tears

I rock you my son, my only son…

Hector´s child … golden one

Sleep now my love, so that the moment

when they snatch you from me

may be as a dream, and you wake only

to a flash of blue and your father´s arms

I am rocking you now

rocking and praying to Zeus to save you —

to Hera, Queen of Heaven

such a little boy

to add you to her family

The Herald says it is time

My arms tighten round you

I bless your astonished eyes,

bluer than the skies above.

I call your name:

I let you go

LANG TAE WAIT

Weel, ancient I may be, bit a Granny,

I´d lang tae wait, thocht it wud nivir cum,

bit life´s a funny thing, ye cannae

tell when it´ll deal a body blow, or sum

wee pressie … jist when ye´d gied up hope

and thocht ye wernae fit; and ye´d better be,

for Grannies are aye on call, so dinnae mope,

be a´ready fur the crisis, bit see

ye´re nae mouthin´ the borin´ platitude:

aye weel, this is the way I used tae dae it.

The wurld his changed, ditch that attitude,

aye weel, this is the way I used tae dae it.

The wurld his changed, ditch that attitude,

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