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

The anatomy of moments.Two.

The anatomy of moments. Two. pic

 

Melodic slap of dripping water

the sigh of an old door complaining in the hall

the dog dreams in her basket

a mother calls

a father winces

two lovers kiss

a red slash in the sky of excited molecules

and in the desert, sand accepts the heat

while foreign tongues curve and stroke their given air

We are in the domain of otherness

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.

27th July. A thursday Sitges. 2017.

Calle Bonnaire

 

Brilliant light.

Sounds coming up to us. These narrow streets

funnel the noise and amplify it somehow, though not aggressively.

Just daily life. Unaffected.

Take it or leave it discourse.

The rubbing along of a more or less polite society

It is music I think. An opera. Small voices confiding.

A mother and daughter. Then the strident tones of a trader.

Rumbling of wheels on the flagstones and sweeping

that sometimes imitates the washing of the sea.

Sea rising in sympathy with troubled air and the moon

and dancing with feathered caps as it races toward the shore

where it rests and tells stories to the incoming waves.

Then they all re-group somehow with an inward suck

and slink back to the great body of water before returning

with fresh stories that only fishermen can attempt to interpret.

Then hasty steps and furtive steps. The drill of some pneumatic tool

and of course the declamatory siren of a car alarm from time to time.

Patrice and I. We in our pools of quiet reflection are content

to sit naked and inconspicuous yet so close to all of the life going on.

We make plans slowly and wonder if we should have another cup of tea.

Good Morning

Good Morning

Good Morning

 

 

Soft pillows on a breeze

Roll across the blue drape,

curtain of beyond

 

We are clung hard by gravity

To the still surface of our world

Imagining. Always a little short

 

The obvious is always staring

Large and blunt

At my inadequacy

 

Implacable odds

The bookmaker smug in money

And I in self-pity. In fear

 

For sadness is lost time

I cannot inhabit that

Not all day. Not every day

 

So I would rather

Blush beneath my host

And live well in the weather.

BANG

BANG

BANG

BANG

 

Sobering to think

Each second

Each instant

Is loaded

 

We only need

To harvest

Potential

To ignite a spark

 

‘Only’ is preposterous

We angle at

A magic trick

The sleek back of a bullet

 

And somehow

In that ‘seized moment’

We are aligned

Past and future present

 

A marvellous particle

Immaculate on the back

Of fusion

And so we come and go