Old

You were 83,
And immediately I
Asked you about the war,
As if you were
An historical relic.
And I had visions of
Women painting
Stocking seams on legs,
And cans of Spam,
And dating an
American man.
But you were only
A kid.

You said you were lonely,
And you only
Came out to be
Amongst people,
And I realised
You were a church
Without a steeple,
As you pray
For souls,
For your empty days
To be made whole,
By the passers by,
And bus stop dwellers,
And anyone who
Has a pulse.

To be thanked for
Loosening my tongue,
And sitting a while
In a dual of ‘am’
And ‘was’ and ‘maybe one day’,
Sort of makes you
Feel bad;
This old lady, sad,
And happy,
Ricocheting fragments
Of a lonely life
Onto a mirror of
Empathy.
Beaming for the camera
That captures
Brave smiles,
And then putting away
Her lips,
As she doesn’t need them
When she gets home
To herself.

©️ Sarah Drury 2021

Latest Work


Im afraid I have been pretty busy lately, as I am currently undertaking an art degree. So this blog has been neglected a little, as I have been working on my uni blog.

Here are a few things I have been working on…

PUSS. Pen and watercolour. A4. Painted for a charity exhibition.

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Puss

BLUEBELLS. Pen and watercolour.

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DANDELION CLOCK. Pen and watercolour.

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POPPY. Pen and watercolour.

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MILO AND THE WISHES. Pen and watercolour. A3.

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Humber Bridge at First Light from Hessle Foreshore. Oils on canvas.

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LISANTHUS. Pen and Watercolour.

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Highland Cooooo. Pen and watercolour.

MILO. Oil on canvas.

My Boy Has Autism

This is a piece for my art degree, an expressionistic sketch I have made in my sketchbook.

My son has autism. He is 13 years old. He has difficulty relating to the world around him at times, suffers from anxiety and mild learning difficulties, but at the same time is very bright and articulate and has an amazing vocabulary. He feels trapped sometimes, by the autism. It can be little things, like his food averisons, or his sensitivity to sounds, or the unpredictable nature of our world. Sometimes he has huge meltdowns.

This toy, Iggle Piggle, was a gift from my late grandfather when Milo was a baby. My grandfather died three years later, followed by my son’s father a week later. This toy has a lot of sentimental value for me, as it takes me back to the love and support we had when my son was a baby.

This piece represents how my son feels as an autistic person, and how I feel as the mother of an autistic child. I think it speaks for itself.

copyright ©️2021 Sarah Drury

Tears

Tears


Don’t want to write
A sad poem,
But my eyes
Refuse to cooperate
With my
Polite smile
And weather worn
Bravado.


Feelings are seeping out
Of closets
Where I thought
I had sealed doors with
Art and beautiful music.
Thinking I had grown beyond
The tears.
But I hadn’t.
And haven’t.


I saw a homeless man
Yesterday.
His face a map of pain
And dejection.
And today the black girl
On TV,
With eyes that
Sold a charity,
And broke me.
And my tears feel like
Insignificance.
Like a first world indulgence.
Privilege.
But I miss you.

Sarah Drury, March 2021