In this place rain has fallen like this forever – a mist, the monsoon downpour and white noise. Then the forest, the edge of a forest where blackbirds call meekly and woodpigeons shelter on the curved branch.
Lightning cracks through everything in vanishingly small moments. And thunder unites.
Spaced along the eternal border are houses, backing on to the woods and in each, the back door is open and swings slowly since the wind is slow. Raindrops fleck the glass, and wet the mat.
In the centre of each garden, one of the risen stands, staring into the swaying woods which moves with the shifting intensity of the rain. It is warm, and their clothes are wet. They never look away. They want nothing except to continue to look. This they are granted.
The lord’s prayer dances on their lips, but it changes nothing, and means nothing. Still they call it, whisper it, softly. Its sound is completely lost in the rain.
They seem still, and at peace. And they might be
This book is an empty
room – on the walls are myths
carved in an ancient hand
the depth of the rock-line
is inch deep. Shadows seep
and diffuse light beckons.
As it happens – it makes
a perfect home for them;
spiders surge in a tide
of grey – babbling softly
build a web on this rock
til tall vault lines hang down.
At the door, sand blows in.
The longer you spend here
The deeper afraid you feel.
The way the grains’ pattern
ignores you – this scatter
Of faint theologies
Author, Do You Pray?
Do not ask if I pray.
There is no need – for life
life is a joke, like this:
You laugh until it hurts
then, as often happens, cry
because you needed to.
and then because all life –
like late Turner – is filled
with a steaming light – so,
hardly moving my hands
I am towed into joy
by rusty old tugboats.
To the rusted coach, hurling through country
the misted landscape shows itself brightly –
smoke silhouettes and industrial edifice
rest in the view, as rubble in grey dirt.
Awake but precarious, I’m whimmed by the heat
and I wore too much crap, brought too much ephemera
rummaging for a pen, in notice of others
whose christian voices, here and there pray.
The whispering waving of torque and hot rubber
the passing on centre and passing on right.
The carriage rolls hungry, wafting on the road
in the air of the country, musty and cold.
The air conditioner breathes, occasionally coughing
in this rhythmic trance, the traveller’s loan,
which purchases the journey, cheap.
In the coach, dull head and hot at the feet;
a clash of environments, splitting the cabin
and the swinging spindles of a needle thin turbine
obscured by the copses that spatter the land.
Miniaturised trees, from the fog’s deep gradient,
resting on the morning, and hewn dirt roads
(the trace of the coming expansion) flow outwards
pre-empted by pylons, ancient statues
whose rest in the desert, long after we’ve gone:
Buffeted by cold wind and frost in the nighttime
snow slowly erasing the web of old tarmac
pitch-dark and frozen, but the national anthem
plays still over the land, a deathless anthem
turning the fascist strata, and rousing
the fragments of newspaper to stand.
In the fast fading coach, windows sullied,
shadow eats the occupied roads of the world.
Ambience change brings me reeling, threatened
from dystopian daydreams, to Motor Way One.
The unending chance-driven swerve of the chassis
rends me and jolts in my head and my stomach
and lightly the inevitable sickness sets in,
waiting for the portent’s rain to begin.
Mechanical reproduction’s music marks
the passing of time; it’s all that does
despite the rolling windows, falling country
whose homogeneous peeling marks the whole…
Drowsing in the sullen surge I wait
and London waits for me, churning,
the City dark with mould.
The atheist, too, remains able to honour the dead.
Visit hallowed places, facing the casket and questing,
the concrete presence of the particular place, to remember
The chances of life and its radiance challenging all.
We honour an arrangement, continuing its physical trajectory
by placing our bodies to mediate humanity’s lore –
Barely under the surface, dark movements, the chemicals
guide potentials to work and material echoes which sigh –
Surrounded by white-stone, skin stretched and face left as an imprint;
twin dark shadows and the mouth which supported the thing.
The ripples fell out, and curling their tendrils about us,
brought us back to return them close to the bright path that sent them –
now dim in the grave where its dull glow makes us into rays.
We worship ourselves, in a reverence, humility, and pray.
Wordlessly, we wait, and bask in celestial company –
silence, the mark of the stars which remain all too distant,
is our heartbeat, our faith in the real, and our thoughts – we reclaim.
Our tears thus held back, our earth, our hope, and our revery,
stood holding our soft inspiration close, and developing
the state of our souls – our love – its plans and its treasury;
the quiet potentials of the human mind, sparking
in the tomb of our old friend, or those who we never knew.
We are open to past lives, accept their gifts, and renew.
What vaults, and well lit
and the gloaming cross, witness
the infidelity of the throng.
They fill the looming vaults with talk:
the talk of the street, or the dining hall.
The many silent signs, supplicant, are passed
just as broken beggars on the street are passed –
“I don’t have the money” – lied to, ignored.
Wasn’t this worth more, I think, than that?
They say: I don’t have the time to be quiet,
to waste my trip, wasting on an unspoken diet
It’s a husk, inhabited by so many worms
eating, slowly, the pews
and drinking the holy water
which was only water after all, after queues
like that in their plastic bottles.
But what vaults, and well lit.
Couldn’t they just be quiet?
Just for a little bit?