Wetherby Road

The wood gate is crisp
driftwood’s dry mirror –
and the church behind
is the rock upon
which the waves crash hard.

This hubbub decries –
with the tree’s creaking –
those who seek a peace.
Really there is no
well chiselled message;

In the graveyard hear
soft undefined hums
of voice and organ
mixing in hollows –
hear wind whistle through.

Hear your insecure
thoughts tapping upon
the stained glass dust – hear
choral doom and then
lays of the bright voice;

continuity
in time’s long empire
has brought the air here
and the soft water
and me

Poem From Page 45 of the Butterfly Notebook

If a house holds old things of you;
such as you, leant on a wall
trying to cry to ‘An Ending: Ascent

or you, sat on a step
the salmon carpet wet with tears
your hair, the faintest warmness

even you, on the dark landing
taking a glance into partial rooms
where concepts of girlhood collide

It will also hold the sublime
the purposeless snare trap of time
things you can see, but never know –

A few of a godfather’s schoolbooks
a toolchest full of tools and old signs
and those we love, who see us with sad eyes.

V.42

Where coastlines of infinite length
are carressed by seas of dark paths,
and clouds of infinite surface
indicate the strangeness of words

you will find me at the barbers
amid a sea of hair. Where kids
find the infinite resistance
of life begin to find purchase

upon a single lollipop
from a jar maddeningly full.
“And this one is for later on”
No kid, you can only have one.

Mind blown. But it takes a long time
for this lesson to register
Til you see that not wanting sweets
is the only way to be free

and you wear black and grey and grow
grey. Excuse me. I just got kicked
out of the barbers for eating
an entire bowl of cheap lollies

I just noticed how much grey hair
had fallen from my head, vital
hair entwined with dust on the floor
piles of dust of infinite depth

Mantra & Event

I

It’s too late, I’m too tired
There are too many small senses
Crowded into the bed with the big
Beige allover tiredness
Let me sleep, let me not write
The aches in my arms tonight.
Only warm up the bed till a)
I can finally relax and b)

II

The bus is late
Condensated windows drip
onto raincoats, yawns, mornings.
Alongside, a giant spider crawls
slowly – it’s so big
it can crawl slowly and still
keep up

It takes a sodden leg
and taps the misted glass next to me
dunk, dunk, dunk
Pensioners get caught inadvertently
in its slowly trailing web
I stare
then go back to sleep.

Branches scrape on the bus
like dull whistles

4, 3×8, Waterfall

A myth can happen anywhere,
Yes, even here where the black wier
constant as evaporation

As constant as the bird-song thrall
Never lets up, always pouring
Dark and when the wier is eaten

Still its constancy will shatter,
When all and the wier go up, splat
In the suns final inferno

Thunder out into space and pour
in a wall of material –
Stars won’t know what to make of it.

The City Moves in Me

Terror swims inside me like a basking shark
It’s my sullen wake, it fills the air behind
As I’m drawn along suburban stone.
I see the wild forgotten as a dream is forgotten
I know I dreamed, but what was it?

I stand on a hill and see the city
Draining down its valley plughole
Soft scars left in the grading air.
I see this city move as a scrapheap moves
Slowly downwards, churning the earth.

Waiting for a bus I wait too long
And my figure, mistaken for a statue
By some routine artist in a tatty book
Is selected for the top of the heap
Which moves, and the wild falls further.

In a shifting forest, in the past beyond thought
A foraging girl picks out an acorn
From a dry skin of leaves, her breath
Marks the air. She leaves it
And the earth hurtles out from beneath.

Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response

Oh your voice,
It carries the geology of the tongue
In a startling language
Your saliva and its stones, caught by geographical time
The knot and bark of your swallow
Sussurations of your lips, of fur
Brushing past itself, salted in the night-forest
And your eyes muddy marsh
Sodden in the hills and routes of our conversation
Between moon-dragging planets.

Female, you shake me
Your strata bared by the sandblasting wind
The grass bent, rent and shattered by a foot
That mountain collapses and tectonic plates tear
You gulp in the nothing of my ear.