That home-made chutney has run out:
you’re scraping jars.
When ash in grate remains unswept,
invent self-cleaning shoes –
and flee.
Inspect the winter damage,
look out for clues – each year
the moon’s two inches further flung.
Your mind’s eyeball
is ready-reckoner
of corners you can cut.
Sharpen your knife on past mistakes.
Track a straight line backwards,
logic unhinges the gates
you once thought closed.
And if you hear a fugue descend,
leave behind the suitcase –
any cathedral pew
or Day-Glo tractor cab
will do.
For neither lens nor mirror work
as darkness meets the dark.
In turned up clothes
you will appear,
here – at my door – once more.
(v & xi. 2015) iv. 2020
MAKING SENSE OF IT
By March our Christmas chutney,
home-made, has all run out
and we’re left scraping empty jars.
When ash in grate remains unswept,
night walker I become,
put on self-cleaning shoes and flee
outside. Inspect the winter damage,
look for clues – each year the moon’s
two inches further flung.
For head is ready-reckoner,
as cutting corners, mind’s eyeball
accommodates with age.
Backtrack then, through gates thought closed,
to sharpen knifes on past mistakes.
Follow a straight line always
pursue the shortest route;
no destination other
than where illogic’s path unfolds.
With suitcase at cathedral
I heard the fugue descend;
my escape plan for rank-and-file
left in a baggage trail.
One by one those Day-Glo pages,
dimming, to shadow symbols turn
and all’s reduced to cipher.
Since neither lens nor mirror work,
every eye is inquisition
when darkness meets the dark.
In turned up clothes it’s then I stand:
here, at your porch, once more.
v & xi. 2015
