I held both my children
fresh from their mother
strangers eyes
searching mine for
answers I have never
quite worked out.
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Cloud-Arks
I want to board those
strange dark shapes of the horizon
those cloud-arks
fully-freighted and
already shipping out south on a
freshening breeze
bearing me
wherever they please.
Spring/Summer
The daffodils are blown, the
tulips past their best, the
blossom snows in
sudden squalls as
leaves unfurl and
Spring’s mayhem
slowly gives way to
Summer’s drab somnolence.
Candle Break
By candle-light you look like a
mediaeval Madonna, full of
thought, contemplation, perhaps a
little mourning for
what once was.
But am I allowed to make such a
comparison in a world full of
thought police, deciding exactly
which words I can safely use to
hymn my love?
Berlin Bed
The bed was such a world once: of
sweat and semen and the
wonderful effusions of
womanhood; of strain and stains;
contortions and cramps;
saliva and stamina;
sticky bodies entwined in
sated exhaustion.
But now the moonlit room
sits still: no moans or
groans of pleasure; no
pillow-muffled screams;
just the sullen
shriek of silence, the
Berlin Wall of blunt knees and
sharp elbows.
Hopscotch
Either nature likes sending
complicated equations to
tease our cerebral cortex or
it has a bizarre notion of
how to play
hopscotch.
Fear Not
Filming funerals in Hendon, London, sitting in the cold Crematorium chapel, reading the memorials whilst waiting for things to begin. I have not made this up.
We worked three days amongst the dead,
who weren’t bothered by our
bubble of busy-ness in their
acres of ash, bones, stones:
not the Chinese, sober slabs
slashed with gold logograms; nor the
Italians, severe in studio photographs,
enamelled, impervious; nor the
Hindus, bedecked with flags, beneath their
special shrines, artlessly recreated;
nor the nexus of North Londoners in
whose bosom they repose.
Sullenly swallowing delay, my eye
caught a simple plaque:
‘F.E.ARNOT’. Were his parents
sending him a message? Did he
heed it? Use it as his motto when
dealing with work, wine, women?
He doesn’t sound much loved,
memorialised sans given names,
respected at a distance, like a
Headmaster or a stern father, but
was he, at the last, able to say
“I fear not”?
Checks are called: we are
poised to shoot; Make-up
tweaks hair, powders sheen;
Costume collects enough
cover-coats to equip an
Arctic expedition; my…
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The Doll of Her Future
She dressed the doll of her future in finery, in
shreds of shared destinies torn and
tattered only by time not
happenstance, nor by the
drudge of laundry, not
mouthed by moths but
lovingly conserved in the
museum of her past.
(With thanks to D.M.)
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.
The Parliament of Birds
Caw, caw—I hear you,
Clawing through the frosty sky,
pale blue above this eastern suburb.
Rooks and crows mark the migrations
and the first cold tinkerings
of their welcomed Winter.
The rivers here will not freeze
nor will we grow too cold in our homes,
cocooned in central heating, battened in duvets.
But the gospel oak is riven and the birds
chant requiems over the city in which
we sought to shut out fear.
They fly eastwards to Essex,
old witch country, commutered now,
but still too dark at night.
On the wing over Epping, circling
the storied Parliament of Birds,
they lobby coldly, exchanging iniquities.
If you walk too near there in session
Black Rod, white lie, magpie appears
to test you on your knowledge or your fears:
“Shoo, shoo, I’m not scared of you” you say,
or with more care than courage
“Hello, Sir, where’s Madam?”
About you…
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