An ocean washes the shore of this island
The days roll in
upon the beach,
Seethe and foam
and then retreat
And the sand
sucks in each one;
Footprints roam,
fill and dissolve,
The years are
erased and scrolled,
Experienced and
then gone –
Scuttled or shipwrecked
-
The water
clogged with wrack;
Yet still the
sirens sing along,
Whilst tides
wreak havoc at your back.
Beyond the beach,
the trees …
Out of reach … and
on your knees.
A moment
The wind has dropped, coming in over
the lake;
The storm, with its wild unrest, has
moved on,
So now the ripples barely reach the
shore:
The muscle of water relaxed; cloud borne away.
And the light lingers now, is altered and slow,
More smoulder than burn, as if the lifted lid
Of sky were hesitant to be lowered -
The moment is time, gathered and stored -
Only, finally, to slip from your fingers,
To slide shut on the darkness.
On the far side, away from the house,
The trees are gathering in the shadows
To separate black from blackness.
And soon the moon at your back will slink
Quietly into the water, quivering
Just below the surface, like a thought,
And you won’t turn to stare it in the face
But simply watch how it dances - elusive and alone,
Amorphous, trying to keep afloat -
Only, finally, to feel it sink like a stone.
Windfall
I have grown old;
A shrub turned
tree
Now lost in the
forest of itself,
Where dreamed of
maidens wandered,
Where fires were
built
And the heat was
squandered
On vast star-filled
skies
In a universe
that was at a tilt.
Now the fruit
has fallen to the flies.
I have grown
cold,
The branches
without a single leaf
To cover what was faith, what was belief.
Betrayal
There’s an
intimacy in blood:
A map of
his heart upon the wall,
The shape
of a country
She’d
thought she’d fully explored,
But now the
borders were closed,
For good.
She envied
the mosquito
That last
touch of his skin,
That kiss,
the taste of him.
The betrayal, the fall from grace;
With death, like a slap in the face.
Unhappiness (an extract)
John believed
that it lived in the cupboard
Under the stairs
with the forgotten
Boxes of
candles, and other odds and sods;
That there was a
redolence
Of mouse droppings
about it,
Or something
pissy and fishy;
That it was
silent and needed to be spoken to,
To be taken
outside, bashful and embarrassed,
Apologetic, and given
what for.
Janet imagined
it skulking around the attic,
A stranger in a
stranger’s house,
Rooting through
the relics of the past
With bony
fingers rimmed with dirt,
Releasing the
clasps of old suitcases,
Wisps of dust, looking
For something of
us to wear,
Swearing with a
lisp in the foul air,
Rank and
jealous,
As it hunted for
something holed and frayed
And reeking of musk,
Seeking a skin
to fill that had been flayed;
That it was
simply unspoken,
after
the pyrotechnics
l am
after the pyrotechnics shattering the enamelled sky shards of colour and
sound the choreographed embers flying the old year going up in flames and
cheers resounding the banging of drums has finished the drunks gone to their beds
the animals still paralysed with fear
then there
is the silence
the
darkness embedded with mica
the breath
held like a stopped clock
the faith
in something new replacing the old
and the
weight of what has gone lifted rising
only to
fall again softly like rain
like the unsummoned
light coming
the healed
sky
 |
…
your you
I once joined a queue of me’s
waiting at the ice-cream van
hundreds
and thousands
we were all
Mr
Whippy
staking a claim on the future
a 99
claiming a stake of the past
chocolate
sauce
unwrapping the present
crushed
nuts
broken wafers
strawberry
sundaes
melting
?
You tell me
Your me
is as valid as mine
your you
