Red phone box in the rain,
the clouds crowd close and winter darkness
hides the world outside. I can no longer see the night,
just my blurred reflection,
the clouds crowd close and winter darkness
hides the world outside. I can no longer see the night,
just my blurred reflection,
wet coat and hair, cold hands on the receiver,
a few coins in my pocket, baby on hip, red hair whipped
up in windswept curls. Rain pounds
against the glass, runs down in ragged rivulets, edges
nearer. Smacks the pane, intense,
relentless. Pools and the pane grows heavy,
about to crack. A dialtone, and my mother’s voice pours
into my ear. I close my eyes, I’m home
pouring milk from the red fridge. We put the world
to rights over cups of tea till the milkman comes and the
clinking bottles make us start, then laugh, as we realise
we’ve talked all night. Sunflowers blaze
in the garden, cats wrap around my legs, books cover
every surface. One lies open at her page, she’s reading
Humans by Matt Haig. A half-knitted scarf rests in a
dome of wool in honey shades while sun pours
light through bright stained glass and ripples of colour
trickle down the window, then
the baby babbles. The rain slows to a heartbeat,
to a pitter patter pulse, and suddenly stops.
The connection is lost.
Manda Eliot is from the beautiful green heart of Wales. She enjoys reading at spoken word events and has been published by Dreich and Abergavenny Small Press. In 2023, she was longlisted for the International Dylan Thomas Day prize. She is studying for an M.A in Creative Writing.
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