Meg Peacocke has loved and written poetry all her life, with several full collections to her name, first from Peterloo Poets, and latterly from Shoestring (whose editor, John Lucas, ever delights in celebrating ‘unfashionable’ poets).
She deserves the description ‘much-loved’. Her work is lyrical, precise, exacting, timeless.
Now in her ninth decade, she is as assured in her art as she ever was. With age and aging as her sprightly theme in these new and selected poems, she is light on her feet and—even in her soberest moments—lifts the heart. If you have somehow escaped reading her before, prepare for a particular pleasure.
How nimble the old are, balancing
as the world gyrates beneath them—fast—faster.
All that’s familiar sweeps from touch
till their bones are honeycomb.
You can’t know how deftly I’m spinning
or how I love anything that hesitates—pauses—
sticks with me a minute—touches
my flying head. Look,
I’ve gathered a little parchment leaf.
It settled against my cheek as damp and cool
as a child’s kiss. We have happened
together. We slip away.