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The
floor’s a place
for an outdoor feast,
food in a basket
a quick rub
with a dock leaf
and all is well
yesterday’s
moon
still shining in the bowl
of her throat
upside down
pores not gills
too large for the pond
the carp circling
only one way
the shadows beneath
her eyes grow darker
a tongue wags in with
in that dress
you’d expect nothing less
the small boys pee a row
of zeros in the snow
urged on
the vicar steps
off the church tower
goosewing
into the harbour
oiled
cormorant
can never be cleaned
the shop assistant eyes up
stains on his jacket
dark archipelagos
and outlined islands
where they may go
the honeymoon, paid for
by his parents
you’re always beautiful
muttered
to the daisies
they bury the lamb
in the half–light
spring’s
broken,
she shakes the watch
against her ear
another spaceship enters
the orbit of the moon
radios crackle
as an electric storm
kicks in
bake the pears whole
in sugar and red wine
the burn is brackish
a race of rust
and shed wool
his beard unstuck
we recognise Santa Claus
lost in the woods
Hänsel and Gretel
could only eat gingerbread
growing up fast
she slams the door
in the face of
it
the waiter rolls
the dragon’s eyes
looking down
stairs can be dangerous
the elixir’s made
of coltsfoot wrapped in
butterbur leaves
untie the ribbons
on the Maypole
making for the open
two hares chase
across the down
we stagger home
for the love of Bowmore
sandy toed
shoes on our heads
wading tidal flats
spun, spun, spun
into a waltzer kiss
a line of light
traced onto sky
my head aches
on the long flight east
two orange dawns
these fried peaches
are they breakfast
or last night’s tea?
first win of the season
we follow the moon
cry of an owl
circling
whose hunting who?
in the dark
we almost felt the same
the differences
between our bodies
get less with age
despite the bleeps
we talk over everything
fuck this!
fuck that!
is all the walls say
the new school
ringed by a six foot fence
we catch flies
for the biology teacher’s
flesh eating plants
popcorn spills over
at the late night double bill
wiping off
her make-up
on the last bus
if you sit still long enough
you can watch the flowers open
in the birthing pool
the baby slips out
from liquid to liquid
my ears pop as we enter
the channel tunnel
for the love of country
I fled
and now you send me back?
a birthday present
she keeps the receipt
locked in a drawer,
an amulet,
a loaded gun
arms raised for St Jerome
the blood bubbles
across the land
wells spring
spreading black poison
nightshade
cut with a scythe
the charcoal burners camp
in the middle
of Oak Wood
a twist of smoke
plies through the mist
at the crater’s edge
disturbed by feet
a pebble dances down
she fell in love
with her psychoanalyst
together on a couch
a woman
and her cat
fingers in a bowl
of tormentil
a whole childhood
along ditches
of frogspawn
my nose led by
smells of wild garlic
walking to the souk
for lemons
and a heel of ginger
the bitterness wears off
as time goes by
an undertaker
practices his tuba
in the moonlight
first hint of frost
cracks the gardener’s resolve
the whole street’s washing
sooted up
by Mr. Smith’s bonfire
even the blue ribbon
has turned to ashes
shouldn’t it be gold
that is found
at the end of the rainbow?
spiral notebooks and other
tiny packaged objects
what can I say,
mice have been at the
snowdrop bulbs again
up and up
through the dead leaves
still sitting
the swan beaks
her massive nest
from the bank cows
watch
a narrowboat pass
which is the river?
which is a canal?
and which the sea?
we sail them all anyway
in search of Tir na nOg
the High Possil’s hat
could only
suit you
what is he to think
all those hearts on her sleeve?
Lady Murasaki
elegantly dabs
a welling tear
everyone wants to be
a workie at breakfast
pull up the blinds
and the moon will shine
on buttered toast
the train’s delayed
by the wrong sort of mist
under a beech
the sheep gather
in closed circles
she clings to his back
as they cross the river
you see turquoise
behind your eyes
when he touches like that
the ice cap
stops melting
Scott crossed out
the word ‘wife’
and wrote ‘widow’
the auctioneer’s hammer
comes down with a bang
fourteen cock pheasants
go rocketing
over the hedge
in her buttonhole
a speckled feather
up before dawn
to the meadows
mushrooming alone
he breathes out,
it’s only the moon
willow leaves
float onto and under
the old bridge
our log pile shifts
a yowl from the vixen
the smudge of scarlet
through glass you know
is Japanese quince
painting outdoors
a delight of warmer days
it takes more time
to hide decorated eggs
in their small garden
the Buddha’s topknot
lifts him to the light
helicopter blades
whirl incessantly
overhead
poets shift
closer to the ground.
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