Monthly Archives: February 2012

Marble

In dawn’s glim light your pale body seems

carved from marble by a master using the

delicate imperfections of the medium to

suggest the buried red and blue of veins, the

wan pink of nipples, lips, vagina, each hair

carefully chiselled to look

tousled by sleep or sex or death, and my

heart stands still until the

faint tremor of your belly belies that

you have been taken by some

covetous Pygmalion and

raptured back into stone.

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Dust Heap

High in the Downs, the tip is

heroic in scale, crawling with an

army of diggers dwarfed by the pile and

patrolled by squadrons of gulls

protecting their property,

the whole encircled by a

chain-link fence festooned with

plastic bags looking like

mementoes, messages, memorials of an

untimely death or a

gigantic disaster.

Snowdrops

With the snow the ground was too hard for

several days while the bulging

bag chilled in the outhouse, then

 

the snow gave way to snowdrops, the

enriching soil suddenly succumbing

to my sweat and spade.

 

It wasn’t wide or long but deep to

take the burden and the

rootball of the rose—

 

yellow I thought being suitable for a

cat too scared to go outside

except for its funeral.

Voyage of the Unwanted

Though they were unrequired they still went,

servants of the whims of master, mistress:

carefully folded, wrapped against

breakage, immured in

labelled trunks which were then entombed in the

bowels of great ships of which they knew nothing

except the rolling, the constant

thrash of machinery, the

scurry of clawy feet seeking entrance, the

growing humidity, the

threat of mildew, rot,

deliquescence,  finis.

 

Unloaded,  they were often forgotten,

stored somewhere inappropriate,

spoiled, eaten by ants and those species

amazingly adapted to

paper and fine clothes: but if they were

lucky, one day they were

unpacked, put back in place, left in

peace to watch the dust destined for them

lit up by London light.

Spring

Spring when it comes will call me

as it always does with

wriggles of desire and self-doubt,

niggling aches of curiosity and

nostalgia, above all with the smells of

time-fused fecundity, like the

rioting vernal clock on the hills above my

boyhood bed overwhelming the

docks’ ship-oil pungency, urging me to

cast off, make steam, dump the charts,

live, love, fuck, explore

foreign soils or the

strange secrets of the

next street.

New Found Land

Frozen Majesties

Landskip

The first blossom in my garden is orange,

courtesy of a supermarket and a

sprightly wind which took it to a

topmost branch too high to reach, so it

may well upstage the others–still

hiding from hivernal hatred–with its

eternal vibrancy.

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