Sunday, May 31, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Beyond the bedpost
no mirage of glad husband
moving tall towards me with his English offer
of toast and marmalade,
a cup of tea.
He’s with another.
She has mongrel blood,
a Knightsbridge accent,
can turn a man into
a spinning top,
an arsonist in the house of marriage.
One day she’ll become
a book that my husband
has tired of reading.
I’ll go soon, far from
Massachusetts, Devon, London,
the zoo where my selves are caged,
sleepless monkey examining its fleas.
Outside snowflakes fall,
drafts of a poem torn to bits.
In the night sky
I see the Zoo-keeper.
From his starlit belt
important keys hang.
He moves towards me,
I towards him.
where it’s black.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
The river is brown-hued, wide.
In its shallows small black fish appear,
hyphens of life,
pleasing barefoot children.
The river is pelican-ushered to the sea.
The beach curves south to a crop of hills
where a white lighthouse stands,
its spiralling stairs now climbed
by camera-burdened tourists.
In the sky, there’s a small plane, silver-bellied,
gone when you turned
to a Ruth Rendell paperback.
This coastline asks you to name yourself,
fisherman, beachcomber, surfer, retiree,
to examine whether you’re more than that.
eases from rock to sky,
becomes a speck and miracle
to a small boy, a sandcastle lord,
standing sandy-kneed, squinting.
The wind, the waves, play their games of give and take,
the horizon searches its deep pockets
for the makings of tomorrow’s weather.