Tag Archives: observations

A Mother and a Daughter

As she was going she

went back to those

childhood woods where she

could hide for hours and

be naughty but you

resented your absence from a

world where you

weren’t conceived or

even imagined.

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Anaesthesia

We so anaesthetize dying that

family and friends may as well be at a

pre-Funeral, unable to touch and

talk, reminisce and laugh through

what might be pain but may

also be love’s last kiss,

abolishing last words

famous or not.

An Easterly

The wind gets to you the way

other weathers won’t,

smiting your face with

unexpected blusters, the blows

turning your cheeks red,

chasing you round corners

as though each gust was

after you personally and

each grain of grit

aimed perfectly at the

centre of your eye.

Salted

footprints2

The snow recuses itself from the grass, but

retains my sole, though my

thoughts are salted with

such impurities the snow

should surely melt.

Just Words

Kind words sink silently into the

memory-sponge of the walls but

harsh words carom around the house

forever, their cockroach-carapaces

impossible to crack.

The Flotsam Trail of Memory

I love because I love—

there is no other reason, and

reasoning cannot

undo love, with all its

tethers and tendrils, its

flotsam trail of memory

from faded photograph via

forgotten pleasures to the

cold text with its cursor

blinking in time with my heart

in a dark, emptied house.

GIF

Do you know you are a GIF in
someone’s Performance Art? The
gold in your blue uniform glittering in
old sun, your hot-pants emphasising your
long dark legs, your
silver batons never quite
twirled above your
shy smile.

But then we are all a GIF in
someone’s mind, some moment
burnt, looped in the soul, some
mannerism eternally annoying, some
gesture that caught in the throat, a
split second when the mask slipped, and
your face cracked open with a
shy smile.

White Noise

Each flake absorbs one

microdecibel of sound

squeezing the air silent

all the botheration

compressed by coldness into

white noise released

distortedly in the

sharp crunch of a

well-shod foot.

 

Playtime

Age doesn’t matter:

there’s still a playground

with dangerous corners where

girls flirt their souls out then

run away, and boys

want to boss or be bossed,

run the Alley-Alley-O or

score all the goals while

the clouds darken and the air is

suddenly sharp with

Chinese Whispers and

Chinese Burns.

The Great Chain at Seacombe Ferry

When the river dropped you could see it,
each link as big as my torso,
seaweedy, dripping, disappearing into the
Mersey’s muddy mouth,
whose depth its length revealed as I
dwelt on my inability to swim,
like all mariners, or mariners’ sons,
scared of so much water.

And I thought of that greater chain,
dredged by sweating slaves to stopper
the Golden Horn when strange sails
smattered the horizon.
What it kept out it also kept in, but Hardrada,
tired of the Varangian life, craved
green seas again, and a crown, but his
stolen ship stuck on the chain, teetered—
at the stern swung a sword
slippery with his blood in a gawping square,
at the prow the Black Sea, Kievan Rus, home,
a throne, descent on England, so
he and his men thrust down with their weight
and rushed towards Stamford Bridge,
scraping off the chain and onto the
heft of a Saxon axe.

My mobile murmured a message,
“My sweet, come home. M” as a
ferry bumped the pier, its wash a mix of
Mersey filth, brown Bosphorus, North Sea, whilst I

shivered, like you when I kiss your
neck with its gold chain,
each link as big as my heart,
in length its depth revealed.

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