Not Sloth

I fell into a trap at dawn.

East, the sun

lit the sea awash

and I looked for, longed for, ached for, rest.

 

Stepping into this trap

I laid up

but knew, deep down, that ink can run

letters form, words rhyme, there’s no time

 

and I saw a white sheet

hanging on a line

pulling moisture from the sun

and sizzling waves;

loosening fibres, softening edges:

ready for work.

One in 1461

This afternoon

in an empty house

I’m singing songs

and

 

‘Happy Birthday to You’

when my daft brain works out

how Andrew,

if

 

he had been born

one hundred and twenty

days earlier,

he

 

would be a leap year

boy and aged merely five;

which he does, indeed,

seem.

Bright Star

Love’s not bright and constant

but only cheese on toast;

a little glance,

returning nod,

a cup of tea, a smile, a nudge

 

and sometimes, like a closing door,

it needs a push before it turns and groans

and opens to the garden.

 

Another thing:

the gaps

 

between the cheese, the tea, the toast and sunny laughter

- they also matter -

 

because it’s there, right there, that you remember to remember.

And do, indeed, remember.

 

Playing Backgammon with Andrew

It’s not always wise to win at Backgammon.

We play slowly and even look for

a little cheating; a palmed counter,

diverted attention. Like so many

 

games we play together, the point is

that dots on two dice always come

to more than one. No contest. Fun,

rolling and counting. In turn. In balance.

Andrew's Words

Now

as long as sounds

ripple into soft air

he’ll speak extravagant hints

because a tang spilling out from

human centre is an unavoidable urge

 

and when I do the calculation on a jotter,

there they figure – 6 million brilliant words

over a span of 18 years,

timbres of aliveness,

gut power

now.

Dominos at the Pay Station

It’s a way to practice patience

and we know, n’est ce pas, a Brit

will stand and shuffle, queue

pissed off:  a brick, a twit,

true grit

 

“Bright ones” step in turn (in turn)

towards a grinning box;

slotting plastic, coin and finger

to a mouth that spits out paper,

winks and lets them go.

 

Farmers

Rough hewn, the men who turned this land,

who milked the sea, who fished the air,

who stacked up walls that soon contain

a farmer’s heart, a farmer’s fire.

Preposterous, an angry moor

transformed to fields of friendly hay;

to trim a beard of barleycorn

and lead his cows to school each day.

Preposterous to grow his bairns

by raking silver from the sea

or netting birds that laugh too loud

and hares that leap like butterflies.

Rough hewn, a face that falls to west:

his body leans against a wall

and whistles every tune he knows.

The point of rest? So he can toil.