A blackbird binds the fragments of dreams
with the twine of his song;
a scattered archipelago of reality
emerges from the night:
clang of dawn deliveries; rumble
of dustmen’s carts on cobblestones;
the dragging steps of the Golem
after a night’s watch over his precarious city.
That was long afterwards, though. Where I was now
was just wanting to get her to stop,
stop the car on that narrow lane on a Welsh hillside
whose name I’ve forgotten
like the reason for our insane quarrel, or where I found
the recklessness that made me
open the door of a car driving along a narrow lane
on a Welsh hillside, jump outside
while she was still slowing down, bang the bonnet
and leave a dent that we both,
separately, secretly, worried about for the rest of
that holiday, because of course
we hadn’t taken out extra insurance for the rental car,
as you do when you are young
and still trust in things mostly turning out right, and still
capable of insane, inexplicable emotions
that will make you jump from a car on a Welsh hillside
and write a story afterwards,
long afterwards, a story about a man skipping stones
over the surface of a twilight pond,
about two people walking through endless cornfields
towards the grain silos of a sleepy town
somewhere in the dusty Midwest of the United States;
a story about love.
The cheerful confusion
of unidentified dawn birds,
punctuated by the bisyllabic
cackle of pheasants.
A little bird has dreamed
a strange amphibian dream
and practises a timid
ribbit – ribbit?
A blackbird and his rival
soar above the chorus;
another pheasant screech,
followed by heavy flutter.
A goose honks, once.
The ribbit has grown in confidence.
Suddenly, halfway through
a steak and Guinness pie
at the Yew Tree in Chew Stoke
I realise this is happiness.
I have been away from you
and tomorrow I’m flying home.
There are yellowhammers
in the yew tree, and
I want to reach for my camera –
but they would only fly away.
this morning
I found
in my sock drawer
that missing
grey cotton
sock
it’s my birthday
maybe
all’s well
with the world
after all
I know all about
the fierceness of badgers:
how a border terrier
will follow a fox
down the darkest hole –
but should he disturb
a badger down there,
he will bear the marks,
and still win prizes
at dog shows
as if half his muzzle
had not been ripped off;
and this as a tribute
to the fierceness of badgers.
Secretive, nocturnal,
masked like thieves,
you only ever see them
at night or
safely dead
by the side of the road.
But today on a hill track
I came across one.
Wary, I stopped –
then inched closer
to take a snap
with my mobile;
still closer, and spoke to him
as you do to dogs.
He hissed.
I jumped back
and watched him
retreat into bushes.
He was young
and must have been lost
and afraid
as we all are.
And so we walk through life:
timid, gingerly, circumspect,
because we know all about
the risk of high places,
the danger of draughts
from an open door –
and the fierceness of badgers.
14/4/1912
piano music drips down the stairwells
sharp splinters of laughter
I imagine the tinkling chandeliers
glowing couples whirling across the floor
and I sit
when the great clock is ready
the jolt is unspectacular
I know these flickering lights and
the stillness before time resumes
and the music strikes up
and the dancing goes on
while I wait
for the hurrying footsteps and
echoing voices past my room
a book slides off a table
the dance speeds up
while I wait
till it bursts through the door
as cold and black as I knew it would be
now the running has stopped
the voices are stilled in great ship’s sigh
and I sit
why should I run
I have always been here
Someone has found my secret place
and raided the Impatiens Parviflora.
Its pods,
translucent green
with ripeness,
the joyful pregnant bombs
of resurrection –
all spent.
I button up my coat.
The winter will be cold.
out on the beach
an old man leans into the wind
bends down
picks up a pebble
against the hiss of waves on shingle
he stands motionless
then gently puts it back
among the million others
leans into wind
bends down
seeking perfection
still
The fisherman
hip-deep in muddy water
waits for the tourist boat
to pass.
Cigarette dangling
his bright eyes never leave me.
When the tide turns, Barang,
they tell me
I’ll slit your throat.
The boat belches diesel.
We pick up speed.
whypoetry 