Conference Believes (two days in Cardiff)

Leant forward into Spring,

bronze Nye argues a point;

his downcast index strong,

once tenable, now echo

of antique rhetoric.

 

Between squalls, brittle sun

calls daffodils to surface.

And policy is aired,

blown spinning, dancing 

like so much precinct litter.

 

Going through the motions:

a ritual of shown hands,

iron phrasemongery

and hopeless resolution.

Each voice has its typeface.

 

In the hyphen of twilight,

a swim and steam room sweat;

certainty dissolves,

and lane discipline holds

hardening arteries at bay.

 

Solidarity steps out:

from corner to corner

anecdotes shape perspective.

An inverse ratio

of drink and reason.

 

Public transport man shuns taxis;

through arcades weaves his way

beyond the surly Taff:

from hotel to station,

the choiceless pick their brands.

iv.2006

Instructions to Arachne

Begin with a line

Float it

on the breeze of a single breath

to another surface:

the distance of thought.

From the slack middle,

drop your second

to form a pivotal ‘Y’.

Next, a scaffold of spokes -

anchor each to the frame.

Build a platform at the hub.

Make it firm:

later, as you hang head down -

waiting latent,

your belly will swell with ideas.

In the seam of night and day

trace a spiral outward.

Briefly rest.

Then, edge-to-centre back,

spin your sticky script.

Be nimble across the trap -

use your third claws.

And punctuate weak gaps

with extra thread.

You may eat your guidelines.

Feel tenderly for the struggle:

unseen,

its vibrations will reach you

along silk-strong strands.

End them with a bite.

ix.2005

Pushing OutThe Boat  #11, 2012

GEOMETRY TOO

 

the restless hand

which kneads your spine

it may be mine

 

would untie knots

in the dark curve

of a question mark

 

and measure each

changing minute

our ratio of pleasure

 

subtending fear

of dead angles

through sheer friendship

 

to leave you asleep

a tousled heap

caught in God’s net

 

viii.2000

Northwards Now #14, 2010

PLATFORM

Under security mirror

and manifesto of adverts,

we who wait, watched over.

Beneath the fish-eye stare

I pace an edge’s yellow warning,

taste dampness in September’s air,

and scan the choice of company.

Youth adjusts its midriff,

selects new tracks to pass midday

content in isolation.

Down parallels of to-and-from

I look to gauge direction;

for unloosed words to run

true as that line below bridges:

each arch seen through a nearer one.

The boundaries, brick and wooded,

narrow to distant amber:

our signal undecided.

My train is overdue.

A crisp bag crackles, and silent

the first leaf falls, no end in view.

ix.2005

Pushing Out The Boat #11, 2012

PUTTING THE CLOCK BACK

September.
Persephone jumps pre-emptive
back to the underworld;
is buried in the fall that follows -
concrete and kerosene.

Hunched into morning,
mist rolls in; hangs
like dust down avenues.
Beneath old chestnuts, conkers -
littered as cluster bombs and aid parcels -
are collected by children.
Choice of shape is vital:
both food and death are yellow.

Night overtakes day.
In gutters, leaves swept to mush
pile up, refugees along the kerb.
Wind-whipped, their colours wear thin
and the year is brought to earth.

Eleventh hour poppies bloom in lapels,
bedeck memorials -
a harvest fit for junkies.
Held in this balance of terror  
our human form divine.

 

xi. 2001

FOR THE RECORD

In yawns of dawn departure loaded,
yet left behind, the camera;
not for the first time we’re reduced
to postcard reminiscences.
Look right there, in the glove box crushed,
a former plastic canister
spills its sprung brown roll, glossy
with pictures taken yet concealed.

Scenes not seen, forever frozen
in the pause before a red light shows,
get held in fleeting recollection.
That moment when I squeezed your hand,
kissed your cheek and cracked a feeble joke:
because we stood and gazed beyond
the margin’s frame of reference,
I know by heart its landscape.

Sundown across waves, a cliché
slips behind the lid of nightfall.
Looming large at distance, but
in a snapshot’s fixed alignment,
close up the green-washed glitter
is never so sublime; remember
we leave someday as we came in –
take only what’s disposable.

ix.2009