Tuesday, 29 April 2014

Desert Bride

Desert Bride

He calls me chicken glove
and marvels at my trank,
my slender stitched fourchettes,
my tiny gussets stitched and slashed
and quirked to shape. His fingers
flute my slinky mort.
My round seams beam
his pleasure stake.



The weather, the skies overhead changing,
the sea and its currents,
the mind and the constant images of life,
the earth and the glory of it,
the birdsong in the morning.
The body minding itself from harm.
Memories of those we love.
Intentions for good in the future.
The land like a rock for our feet.
Life in all its forms.
The torment of the day.
The beauty of the day.
The truth of beauty.
The dawn of each morning.
The first born child.
Mothers and fathers.
Seasons turning from white to gold.
Ice caps in the frozen North.

Monday, 28 April 2014

Snapshots -Spain

Snapshots - Spain

Aloe verde spikes against the hard blue Spanish sky.
Brown arid stretches of land,
the sun sucking and endless seasons.
The swish of  water sprinklers.
Shouts of the border guards.
Empty villages at three o' clock.
Stray dogs pack, yap into the yellow haze.
Mothers, call their children, "Ninos, ninos, ven aqui."

The silence above the blue sea and below the blue sky,
the rush of  waves over rocks.
the smell of the dumping ground,
where rats bred in winter.
Auntie Betty, smiling in her first agonies of Alzheimer's.
Empty air, legs hot and red, blisters on children's shoulders,
cars breaking down, money gone. Two pesetas left and an empty house.

A flight to Morocco, the death of a friend, a pauper's funeral.
Small smiles, smashed toys and tumbled chairs, a grip around the throat.
A lone cry for help in the black warm night.
A body carried out to sea by mistake.
A glass of beer left on the bar.
A baby crying in desperation.

Walks to empty memories,
Women in black on the wrecked sea front.
Women crying. Sea gulls circling, scavenging, cawing in pain.
Small pebbles sharp between the toes.
Sand too hot to walk on.

Gap toothed Christabel the gypsy.
Two-faced tourists.
The shouting of bull baiters, the fear of blood,
veins throbbing, gored and full of the lust for death.
The view over the deep gorge of Rhonda.
The constant grate of voices.
The constant silence.

Sunday, 27 April 2014

Her face is reluctant

Her face is reluctant.

Her body recedes.
Her face is reluctant.
Her smile sticks in my throat.
Her eyes split my heart.
I am at my end, the destination.
Brakes scream a chorus.
Windows rattle a bonesong.
My mother's gone; my mother's gone.

Saturday, 26 April 2014


From 'Ten Notes on Items at Kettle's Yard'
 Item 5
‘Boats on Seas’ painted by Alfred Wallis. ‘My boat is so small and the sea is so wide.’ A hymn I learned at school.. I see the connection between this painting and John Banville’s novel, ‘ The Sea’, and the isolation of the individual, and the deeps; the plumbing of the unconscious; the currents which toss us willy nilly despite our attempts at control
Item 6
Three glasses among flowers. A picture by David Jones. I am aware they are standing proud against other objects in the background. A toe or is it a finger? Flowers. A little house? I ask myself if we can ever see the whole picture at once.

Friday, 25 April 2014

Shelling Peas

Shelling Peas

The bed see- saws with screams.
Pain flecks the air.
Pillows prop up fear.
Seconds tick with anguish.
The world is hot and red.
“Bear down and grin on it.”
The nurse smells of late nights.
She slaps the miracle in irritation.

Thursday, 24 April 2014

Squirrel Memories

Squirrel Memories

Stone still they would sit,
in the near distance,
flecked with sunlight,
dappled yellow-grey
against the grey stone.

You saw them, pointed.
we stopped.
Slowly, then, inch by inch,
we stalked them.
making no noise, we advanced.

A  twig cracked under foot.
the squirrel flew, tree- bound.
The slight branches swayed.
The leaves sighed.
Silence settled.

We caught them on the garden fence.
shot them  easily,
before they moved out of focus.
We captured them,
in a frame we could share