An itinerant treads through the fields in London, Wales and England, picking through the debris of a culture war, heading back home to the north. They record the thoughts of objects and see the others talking and gesturing, haunted by visions and dreams of the past and future. The field repeats, each time slightly differently. In each field a different assemblage – maybe a castle, or a festival, or a bird
When I got back from the game house
I read Joan Murray, with water
and a magnum and heard of strange
adults and children and became
with her, once again sure of life.
Events in the short term with me
as a focal point betray none
too soon that things are just going.
Out of a context brought by words
I live in a basic form of
eden. I feel the cold ice knot
of cream melt on my teeth. Surely
things were occasionally wrong
even in that garden? I’m grown
simple, hearing the dishes clean.
I have sore eyes, and my ears twinge
and my naked feet are sore souls
of the carrying of bodies
in a concert beyond of thought.
But my morning should bring a day
I don’t dread and sad moments pass
like memories over long years
work of neuronal altering.
Oh Joan, come back to life with me
A tree is falling down
somewhere, always – the bark
perhaps shed – no matter
whatever the state – all
trees fall at some time – or
decay takes them slowly
the point is – all that noise
all that lost feeling calls
out louder than grass growth
louder than the mushroom’s
creaking love of all life
ingesting – and bright plants
– they swarm in a dancing
wind and send small sermons
out from damp petals – out
in the clouded darkness
out in the beading rain
every single gold day.
There are arguments made –
witness the ant’s rebuke
to the flat earth’s respite
witness the air breathing
the whole flotilla in
and with a breath again
this shout of all star-fall.
Billion years refute still
longer still years – it’s mad
considering the dark
to look at this strong joy
at all this kerfuffle
A plane beams – a car moans
a shed settles – notice;
while all this can be changed
there is still the moment
when you unwrap a gift
hear the rain’s soft shuffling
++So you talk to me of comfort/my friend
and darkness/well I’ve this- –
if the endlessness of our darksky
were placed against them/I
would mark it as a grain of dust
hanging in a beam of sunlight
on a summerday’s comfort/
gleaming ironmetal to its rust++
They are as darkness to me/how it flies
curving out at equal speed to light
as we lie together sweating sparks of touch- –
they are my eclipse/my thunderstorm
my oceandeep gloom, my envelope++
They are the stranger standing in the room
who disappears on waking++
They are my dark/they are my gloaming ++
They are not sound/but silence/after chatter
shook violentwise the eardrum and composed
a mindset to accept the wind and void++
They are not caress/ but lack of touch
on a breathless day under unfeeling sun
when all the cares of space burn into my skin
in noise and fury++You see//
You grade things wrong when you throw this out::
We measure all things, and give them measure++
It might be right to prefer the finale/and doom
To the end of the connection/holding in storm
The weatherfront of myself and them++
They are my welcome gloom++
We, all of us, have it –
fear in the night, trembling
at the horizon of our life – waiting
to unfold from the world, unknown
until the crystal moment
when we die with surprise.
We, all of us, battle
to sleep with the knowledge:
our hearts, our stomachs, holding
this sadness, our terror – alternating
which rise and fall with tides of living:
a bird flashing in the sun, then gone.
We, all of us, have the solution: embrace it.
This one pain is certain; learn to love it.
Smile in the blackness
at this strange elevation – it won’t be long.
Join in the chorus and chant of life
for it cannot destroy us, this fact that we die.