The Leaf Drives the Tree

It’s the leaf that drives the tree,

all that burly strength

burrowing into earth and air,

as deep as high, all that

hydraulic heavy-lifting just to

unfurl a wafer of green, amber, red

in the hope that it helps the

gargantuan whole survive

bare, bleak Winter.

 

Harmageddon

It was just a small cut, a

shiver of slow-moving pain, a

dull throb really, with

very little blood, just

little beads on a

bright new bracelet

worn in her private

Princess time.

 

Mangoes and Lemongrass

I feel you peel yourself unwillingly from my back,

hear your soft pad, the

shower starting, the

muffling of its noise as  your

body intercepts spray, your

soft humming of a

nameless tune, the water’s

modulation as you bend for that

gel that smells of

mangoes and lemongrass.

 

I wake to the soft “shush’ of a drawer, the

clip-clip of a bra, the

hush-hush of shoes, the

bristly rush of hair

being brushed, the gentle

indentation of the bed turning

lips to loving lips, the quiet

snick of the door, the

taste of your lipstick, the

lingering scent of

mangoes and lemongrass.

 

Intruder

You steal into my room,

lighting your way to my bed with the

phosphorescence of lust,

naked, heavily pregnant, needy,

wanting my warmth to

assuage the eternal

ice-cold embrace of

vacuum and gravity.

Hercules

What are you doing there, dude? like some

second-choice rent-boy outside

Studio 54? your rippling muscles

adorned every Greek and Roman wall and now

you’re there? in dead-star alley?

Orion was a rapist but has

bright clasps about him, and a

bejewelled priapic sword, while you,

Hero you, are wrapped in

subfusc, with scuffed shoes,

wrestling invisible monsters in

empty space.

 

Woodpigeon

The catastrophic commotion in the tree is his

combative copulation and the

snap, snap sound of a sheet is the

pleased-with-himself precursor of his

pouting breast breaching

startled air.

Queen of the Stage

Each short month she rehearses her parts,

slips silently on at the back, an

ingénue, all sharp edges and

shy determination, already

eye-catching, getting

bigger parts each night, more

admirers, men throwing

screwed-up poetry, women their

red garters, until she

so dominates the stage the other

cast members might as well

not show up, and even in

decline she still plays her

Grande Dame roles, upstaging

greater players but somehow

unresented as she slips behind the

dark curtain of rebirth.

Elephant

The elephant is in the room above, the

heavy footfalls of rage making the

light-fixtures sway and spin

sharp slivers of light to

shatter on the walls, while the

surface of my drink ripples like in some

cheap horror movie, the cat makes a

hasty exit and the

whole house trembles like

Usher on a bad night.

A Modern Prayer

So uncertain of your existence, I

append “pass it on” to each and

every prayer, along with an

inappropriate smiley or a

sly wink, hoping you will

get the joke or at least

not take offence and forget to

forward my imprecation to the

relevant authority.

Early Music VII

François Couperin “Les Lis Naissans” (Treizième Ordre)

 

I see them first in church

from my eyrie when I

have no need to play,

buds blooming with no thorns

sitting quietly by their

blown Mothers, waiting their turn.

 

I see them next at Court

saddled and bridled, ready to be

ridden hard, their small hands

clutching mechanically at

anything that’s offered

except the reins.

 

I see them most at

Pompes Funêbres,

burying babies, each one a

new furrow in the

badly ploughed field of a

once-pleasant meadow.

 

I see them last in church

followed by the buds that

bested Winter to be

measured for bridles on this

altar bestrewn with

Easter.blossom.

 

Me? I just play to numb whilst I

make music in my mind that

hymns wasted hymens, sad Mothers

leading daughters to slaughter, hoping that

somewhere beauty and the heart

are aligned.