162

162

 

The red door pulses

as it might

for I lived there once

it stands there still

without my sense of torn loyalty

happy in it’s one eyed way

to let all-comers in

the mail, knocks and endearments

not at all sensitive to my loss

my memories  locked in the carapace

of a life slipping away

 

You felt my brush strokes

the lick of paint rising to blood red.

it was visceral. you knew me

yet now

you stand guard

like some impartial sentinel and forget

that we have shared memories

yes, memories

of how I used a plane to ease your swelling mass

when the wet weather got to you

and how you witnessed my brother Mark and I

walk out on the day of my mother’s burial

and back for a desultory wake

so now it bothers me

that you

never really knew my knock

White Out

White Out. Pic for poem

 

Look

how they glide on an ocean

those stick-men and women in suspense

on  surrendered snowflakes

so demure

they abase themselves to blades,

their pressure, cutting swathes

in arcs. A ballet for butchers

Those slopes. No place for feint hearts

for those that can, will, take a tilt at heaven

and those that can’t will tumble

on the  white-down drawn tight

as a sheet raised around the mountain’s flank

in that rare air

accentuating the blue above

Below, in the cleave of the valley

patience waits for spring

to draw down the melt and wash away

the lost and lingering shapes

their whispers and screams

their murmurs, echoes and endearments

as colours regain the heights

A virgin’s flight complete

Not ever gone

 

Chess Mates. I have this sense of impending doom.

 

She rests there in dark matter

I apologize for using ‘she’

because mother it is you not she

I celebrate

your name encrypted on stone

an invitation to let go

to loosen tears and wet the earth

embracing you

while fond memories search for the present tense

in words stalled by time but still, their wings

are lamentations

that breathe a garnish on fresh flowers

the mourners grief a mist of warmth

and everything  succumbed to gravity

so that all around you have company

a regiment in this cemetery

and all of you ‘at ease’

Crows feet

Crows feet

 

a bird lays a line against

the blue or grey circumference of doubt

for the sky, it’s sheets draw inexorably

toward the night

and that absence of light

that pulls a curtain on the day

Deep space will offer it’s dome

to those of us who oblige the moon

obeying rituals and cycles

we have come to know

amid those rumours of your day

that heaven steers toward the pillow

The waking dreams will flap

 like washing on a line

hoping to succumb

 to tenderness

in the still and calm of sleep

In that orbit of the resting eye

the universe is brave, unbounded

by superstition

until the day intrudes again

to support some foolish notion of flight.

Avoidance

Avoidance. Pic for poem

 

The dogs and their owners

smudges on this horizon are

just beyond the range of a call,

an imprecation to obey or

small-talk, that tittle-tattle

of the lonely

as the air they share in a conspiracy

of mounting grief

is just contained in pleasantries

 

I bear left and implore my dog

to follow suit

lest I am drawn-in to the oblivion

of chatter

for we are all, just, recognizable ciphers

in this space

So I duck between hedges that gape

with tired acceptance of this constant intrusion ( escape)

into another field and the welcome glare

 

of solitude

Two worlds separated by nothing much

A resentment perhaps. An irritation on the surface

of another, deeper disquiet

but that still and graven distance is like

the comfort of death

when knowing it all means

nothing at all

 

November the fifth

November the fifth. Pic

 

Etched against a clear night sky

the Hunters Moon can’t outshine

crescents of vivid colour unleashed

on the back of smoking, scalded air

The explosions of tame ordnance invite us to stare

with their sharp reports and colours

that bully the natural spectrum

and disorientate the night

We light fires and warm our hands

on braziers fuelled with kindling

unaware that in our midst

a refugee will cower in terror

at our miss-placed hospitality

our complacent bonhomie

as he or she re-imagines real shells

and livid flares above the rubble

of a home.

Web

 

Web. A pic

A silver line slinks down in a curve

from the side of the house

swaying in the meagre air

and settles on pink flower heads

that are wan against the misty backdrop

A grey shroud blanches

the turning colours of autumn

Then, as I watch, the filament collapses

as it detaches from the wall

Now I see the plant and flower heads it has set free

Tall and proud and smothered in a web of silver threads

that criss-cross the stems

enclosing misty space, inviting flight. Anticipating food.

This outdoor larder is conspicuous to me as the day begins

It is so easy to forget that I am a witness, however fleeting,

of another life. Another set of dreams.

If I am still. If I become a fraction.

I may enter in.