Along this grey margin waders keep their lookout,
thread a placid tide. Sometime familiar species:
seen at binocular distance we find the joy
of recognition. Come closer now. A dark shape,
under the gingerbread cliff, lies wrecked in seaweed.
Emaciated. Turn the body face up with your foot.
Look on those glazed eyes, dried and dull. Feathered omen,
razorbill no more. Whether sandeel – trawled out – or
toxic algal bloom to blame, no state to end in.
vi. 2022
(after Mila Haugová)
No, I have no secrets to pass on.
Cannot explain how self-doubt
picks out a mind to live in.
With patterns of our shared sky
I see your shadow come and go,
but cannot open the heavy door
into brilliant daylight.
People keep pushing through –
all that knocking never for you
or so it seems. For I don’t hear
the language of your longing,
nor question your regrets.
But picture those ghosts
who left you standing: their bare faces,
behind unanswered texts.
In the making of your own bed,
it isn’t good enough for me to claim:
‘All men are not the same’.
ii. 2022
Poetry Is Not Dead - May 2023
Last night’s glasses, this morning’s mugs
are unwashed, strewn about.
Up to one’s armpits in unbrushed hair
and grubbled bedsheets, cleaning starts
with teeth and hands.
Ironing unfolds on the unswept floor.
Cupboard doors that will not fasten
remain unfixed.
Frayed attachments wait
on calls to friends not made.
Step outside. Pruning, overdue.
Fences to whitewash and patch up.
The news is closing in.
Beyond an uncut lawn, the earth
demands to be undug.
What, in the ever-perishing now,
is measure of each day?
Silent poems do not show
the little difference protest brings.
Nor the permanence of revolution.
The Shouting Tories: Bread & Roses Poetry Award Anthology 2022
iv. 2022
