LIFE AT A STONE'S SPEED


one
steady hand
kneads our nape
where a boulder's heat
is borrowed yet magnified
the shape of its ache polished
shoulder smooth with spilt regret
from a lifetime's dream that
tears were all cried out
ending as though
they never
began

vi.2011

THE DIP OF THE HORIZON




This day's for looking round,
for turning arthritic
necks and shuffling feet
to scan horizons.
In the showery distance
a rainbow's arc breaks through,
questions our assumptions.

Circling the full three-sixty
we eyeball each degree,
our heavens to divine.
Nimbus, cirrus, stratus:
middle years bank up
in layers of letting go,
between clouds one and nine.

Function, sense, control fall
prey (or will) to dotage,
heart attack and strokes.
A pyrocumulus forms
from waste incineration,
and children leave like geese
to make their own mistakes.

Our tide is on the turn:
we eavesdrop the plaintive
skirl of curlews' evensong.
Lapwing are loose pages, Dunlin wheel
with hundredfold glints of sun,
and crepuscular rays flood marsh
with myth of silver linings.


vi.2011

TIME OUT OF MIND

What flood discharged you here
at this meandering point,
where banks of crumbling psyche
burst, and morning bells peal
dolorous over pasture?

From room to room you drift.
Your shards of silence set
a crystal curtain tinkling;
brief the insight shimmers
in sunlight glanced off trees.

The cut-up montage monster
roars unlived choices, relapses
into dumb acceptance,
inevitable as single socks
escaping laundry baskets.

Coats are hung upon their hooks,
shoes put in their rack. When words
dry up grim duty calls;
letters sullen sit on stairs,
seek to catch you unawares.

The hood of cloud rips open:
over your shoulder daylight
moon peers down, traps - like fly
in amber - that template
of who you thought you were.

When perception's hinge came loose
what gate were you passing through,
which slammed behind? Unlatch
the snib, return, with heart
quilt solace from the remnants.


vi.2011
 

BREAKDOWN


Have you ever strayed

over the edge of reason ?
Driven by all-embracing logic,
become a metaphor in pyjamas ?

Driven, for that circle must be squared,
or crossed, or arrowed.
Every road sign, every street name,
every lit window is symbol.
While the wide world chain smokes,
each number signifies, all actions link.

Your silent voice yells in an empty cave.

Where doors of perception jam open,
no one is neutral:
in any car’s colour, the driver’s allegiance.
Vision - a contraband daughter -
bathes perspective in hallucination,
sends wisdom a postcard.

Ears ring with the fallout in your head.

When diurnal rhythm lets go its hold,
time melts like a Dali watch
across the labyrinth of waking.
From one slug, or burn, or coffee cup
sleepless to the next;
each turning point an act of futile defiance.

Have you ever drifted
beyond your hidden depth ?
Reached deep within to grip
some outstretched hand ?
viii - ix.2001

SPARE CHANGE

I.

Already browning leaves

bask in focussed warmth:

the definition of sunlight


held in hard-edged shadows,

which slant bars of night

across the furrows.


I squeeze the most

out of time remaining:

removal of crumbs


from arcane elevations

with dampened fingers, thumbs,

and expectations.


Leaving is the absent word

on a torn page:

smoke in a blind spot


where one can’t be found -

trusting footsteps do not

follow you around.


II.

Taking a breather:

I turn the block to its corner, and back.

Retracing routes to a dead reckoning

of climb-downs, compromises,

and short-lived triumphs.


To stay is to swim,

to drink the poisoned river.

Limbs stretch, pull, kick and glide,

emerging silent for a year

beyond the point of no return.


Catching traffic at a halt,

I scuttle by, green lighted.

Place a coin at the bedside

should the ferryman not hear my rhyme.

Always there’s a fare to pay.


III.

Hung up on tenterhooks

a wet blanket of doubt dries:

the masks of here and there,

two-faced, waiting on a word.


Leaf-fall as rain soaks away.

The shouted team-talk of six-a-sides –

lunch hours played out

in swearing, sweating echoes.


Parking meters promise

“free use of unexpired time”;

I plot reappearances

to the rhythm of wheel on rail,


and doze in grubby compartments.

Sunlight and shadowed passages –

the clear-cut choice

long made, long unrealised.


IV.

Pressure on a button then,

for drawn-out if becomes when

in the blink of a moment.


Familiar faces, soon no more

than unsharp recollection,

count these eight years down to days.


I am my own dissector,

measuring mixed sentiment

with a metre length ribbon;


And seeking some balanced view,

which neither labels nor betrays,

is mere shift I’m working through.


Sliced strand by strand, the stale knots

loosen; expose my parting shots:

Home again. Whole again. Home.

viii - xi . 2000

FULL CIRCLE

With open arms, unripened June
reaches skyward where criss-cross runes,
like cloudy kisses, vaporise.
Approaching our meridian
on wheels, I duck its overhang,
gaze through windows and hurry past;
untaken timelines, glimpsed and gone

in the passage between stations.
Deep sat, my crows feet eyes backtrack,
echo distant, tunnel vision.
In its shoebox a photo fades -
lover's keepsake of gilded years -
and there before you first fetched breath,
all mock demure, your mother smiles.

Youth supposes endless encores.
But leant on wall, hands tucked behind,
the image speaks of no return:
leaves me to plumb that pool of genes
for common features, weaving stitches
out of scars. The hidden birthmark
ageing, losing definition.

Decades later, from time to time,
the disjoined stories rendezvous,
make cameo appearances
along the riverbank. I'm perched
in blustery spitter spatter
on a barstool with espresso:
scanning the walkways' lit parade

to fit, in teatime’s suck tide, each
quick step in its place. Yet skirting
sentiment until - as five chimes -
out of the grey you stride, across
the bridge between us into view,
all heels and legs and brimful
of confidence. Neck like a pillar;

bold as once I was, decades since.
Then marching off to the nearest,
noisiest pub, we talk full tilt
and reason you've reached half my span.
So from here on our ratio narrows:
as day dims slowly might-have-beens
get overthrown, while shared things grow.


v.2011 / ii.2012 / viii.2012