Frances-Ann Norton: Poetry

Willow Pattern:   Snappy handbags and porcelain ginger pots The lovers banned from the Spar Local For smooching in the aisles.   Why are Dads such a pain in the ass? What do they know anyway? Were they ever really young and in love?   The boat is waiting A banged up beater of a boat They have paid the captain two crates of Newcastle Brown. Their destination? Love Island, In the Melanesian Pacific.   The edge of the pattern is theirs to create anew The snapped willow, the kicked in fence, the smashed pots the shattered mirror where the motif runs out, what happens there?   This is where their story begins The old repetitions are left behind, forgotten in the amnesia Of true love The pattern is changing, mending, re-growing, piecing itself back together The willow, the boat, the fence, Set sail and don’t look back. First published in Magical Women Magazine , October 2020  

Curled in the Nautilus of Herself:   Curled in the nautilus of herself, she dreams in polynomial time, multiverse. Each night a different life, crystal clarity. Playthings in a painted ladybird tin. Vertebrae of a fish, single portion of ground black pepper Tiny matryoshka, from tight in the middle of the mama dolls. These things she takes out one by one, each with its own tale, talisman for the first day of school. Tokens of her nautilus world. Inside the Fibonacci curves she is beyond reproach or recall. Full of potential, myths and future lives, waiting to be born, gestating in rose coloured dimness. The pink light making a fingernail home. First published in Magical Women Magazine , October 2020  

Potential in a Pandemic: In this time of Pandemic, my eye catches your eye and a moment and eternity passes in recognition, in understanding, in possibility. A future telescopes in vacant potentiality, what if I were in this relationship with this man? who would we be, how would it work out, what would we say to each other?   A flick book of stances with each turn of the page. Vignettes of occasions and milestones slide by in stop frame transitions. Our wedding day, the birth of our first child, standing our new house, first day at school, first argument, first separation, living in separate worlds, end of story.   All this goes by in a flash as I stand in the yellow light of a doorway and you pass by in the darkened hospital corridor. Our meeting of eyes, total conception of the entirety of a human life, a human relationship in a moment as we pass. First published in Dwell Time Zine November 2020.

Lockdown Canticle of Thankfulness: O most inventive creator, all good maker and author of my being. Praised be you O Originator, with all your creatures in Lockdown. Especially our Sister Time, who is the context of my day, Who flies and drags in equal measure.   Who gives moments with loved ones, a pause to think and be. Who calendars a season to put things right, a heartbeat to say goodbye. Who offers space to make plans, a stretch to be friends in and a season in which to plant and germinate.   Who encourages a period to connect as family. Who reveals an interval to rekindle stories and creativity and a stint for games and play. Who gives a duration to hold our breath waiting for the pandemic to pass; and a while to find a new normal.   Sister Time bears likeness to you, without shape or form. You give her to us so we know when to rise and when to lie down; when to fall in love and when to let go. Published on Dwell Time Blog, ...

  July 2022 - Mythos II zine - Ghost stories of Norwich "ZAKS. Barrack St, Norwich NR3 1TS. Once the city morgue, the building that now houses Zaks waterside diner is infamous as one of Norwich’s most haunted buildings. Staff members have reported glimpses of figures they cannot explain, objects being moved and in one case a jug exploding on a shelf and hearing their names called, with them responding before realising they were working alone." The Torn Veil: Zaks   In a small out-house, down a set of slippery sand stone steps, black ripples eddy around the great body of water The sheds and buildings shown little love     in this dank backwater, the river by the building gulps sullenly behind a veil          of choke weeds, convolvulus and nightshade, deep   under the structure, the eternally turning Other.   In a corner stands a girl, one and another.     ...

the Augustine Steward house 1530, Tombland Alley, Norwich Step it Out Mary: The Augustine Steward House   Mary do not step it out tonight.  My fine daughter, stay in with us instead. Here in this house. Please, for the Love of All That is Holy, do not show your legs to that country man. Norwich is a ghost town and the deep stream running by has been diverted past the Steward House.   It is your wedding day, pretend someone else is getting married, instead put on this grey work dress, wander from room to room, make yourself busy. Although the moon is high it is not yet midnight, stay here with us.   Do not go down to the water with the Soldier Boy, no matter what he promises. Stay here with us. It is not worth drowning yourselves over.   The Augustine Steward house is hushed and dark in midnight shadows. There is no music, the fiddle band has left, turned away at the boarded-up door. Her Father, his rage played out, lies voicel...

Till Receipt, English Seaside: Cherries so glossy and red with syrup. Droplets of unguent juice cascade down my twelve-scoop-ice-cream-wonder in pastel colours. Flavours melting together in pistachio, cappuccino, bubble gum, blue-raspberry.    The high road curves and a steep slope drops away below the parked ice-cream van. The grey-green mossyness of the ice-cold North Sea, crash-crashing on the demerara sand of a misty beach in the British summer. Sitting up on a heather strewn brackeny hill in the wind-blown scrub, I shelter behind a broad gorse in golden-yellow bloom. Ice cream in hand, green-sleeves never sounded so sweet.   Towards the beach looking down-hill is a crazy golf course, flags fluttering on miniature stone bridges and little buildings painted ultramarine and salmon. To the West, a Victorian funicular trundling up and coming down for the price of 20p. The sea is a graphite smudge in the far distance and tiny trotting donkeys ...