The FoxesAll night I walk
with the foxes
whose green eyes do
not see me and
a breath that does
not know me and
I tell you this:
while gaining all
has lost something.
Timeless rain, come carelesslyTimeless rain, come carelessly, come
scour the furrows in the land.
You are most cathartic for the sky
and drop from fumbling hands.
Drumroll, drumroll - smiling, insist
yourself in grass and wood and fences
marked as Private. You are young snow
but with ambition. A stormcloud's
in my head and you should know that
the world is drenched and wailing.
The FarmerThe sun is asking me to close my eyes
to trouble, to bend my will with his.
Sheep are running past the baking weeds
in double-time, marching to the bleats
of their folly-young, who look on
and follow the wrinkles in the land;
in case a godly hand should whisk them
up and out to weigh, they briskly run away.
dampRain now abated. Drunk by ivy
or absorbed into the happy sap
of wild garlic - which grows
in linear tracks in the woodland's
heart. I find a fallen trunk
for a bench - fire-flanked, its
smaller arms outstretched in
a plea to the wider plains
and the white garlic flowers
who do not listen. I don't
know how long I have until the
clouds reach their climax again.
For now, this splinter-moment
leaf-in-time, it all smells
damp from this morning's deluge.
But I can smell garlic too
and my own musk and I am
nearly convinced I am here.
For therapy, I found a place, For therapy, I found a place,
and that is all that's needed. Woods
provide a soothing face - and should
I need a quiet patch of peace,
I'll find it where I'm bound to. Trees
are goddesses of a Walden
kind of dwelling. In the forest
light is light, dark is dark, cycles
are the cycles of becoming.
Shh. My thicket is thick with it.
So I pick all the lower leaves
from the younger sapling trees
(barely inches above the ground)
so they shall grow before the rest.
And when I come back in summer
to treat my soul, I'll look for where
the trees are tall, and leafless too,
and that is where I'll find the truth.
Sonnet for ClaraWe stopped beside the railings, years above
the harmless foaming spittle-waves, your hands
inside your sleeves as though you knew the land
would punish both of us before the shove -
which came without your help. I threw myself
into the breeze - you didn't wheeze or cry,
but blankly watched your brittle lover fly
into the floor. I hit the coastal shelf,
survived the fall beyond all reasoned doubt.
The people found me somewhere safe to dwell
wherein my Clara couldn't raise a hell
of my conditions. When I wanted out
they let you in. I thought I'd said enough:
'Oh Clara, I do not deserve your love.'
I like this spot, because outsI like this spot, because outside
an intersection plays out its
redacted dramatic small town
theatrics. Doors do most of it;
their open-close entranced rhythm,
hydraulic tactics, pushed and then
a pull from within to force bold
entreaties street-wise. Noticed? No.
Too busy people - frames invest
in ventures fruitless now. Oh, a
lone motion, no? Someone must, sure,
try and take a pause and peek. No.
If wrenched and split and pursed - inside
a witches' coven, something new
to see, an undressed group of lovers -
this place might intersect anew.
And failing that: a plague upon
this earth! Its beauty fails from
a lack of revivifying -
our doors need something new to hide.
recycleaway; that was when you disappeared up the steps.
For a moment, your heels were all that stayed
below the parapet. and then, they went
where the rest had flown - wherever that was.
My nightmares still hold to that image: you
and your boyfriend holding hands against the
breath from the ventilation shafts. It blew
and the two of you were wafted
EverybodyThis half-moon of neighbour's flowers,
a cold edge of town. A boy of
a young age - not eight, not even
a soul yet - disrupts the crescent
with kicks, punches airborne, happy
in chaos. In bounding through the
re-upturned, defiant, sending
quiet signals through the lunar town,
he's troubled by Dad, who appears
around the edge, the only angry
one - the only one who speaks around
here where the ageing come to live
their last in peace - he spots his boy
and chides him, the genius, who says:
'But they're everybody's flowers.'
His Dad doesn't have an answer.