Oooo

Waiting, it finds you
- wind on your face and hands -
usually cool,
on the move

(as breath
soothes your nose
below brainbox’s branches,
above all those words on your tongue)

roaring a bushfire, crackling twigs
from tree onto shimmering tree.

For Andrew

Among many things
thanks for showing
how exciting
a book of pictures
of moments
of memory
can be.

Miracle

Once upon a time, a miracle
waits. A man will drive his new coupé along,
hand-wave at yesterday’s gearstick,
taking a longer way home

when faith jumps onto the road
in the form of a vixen and fluffy cub.
He stops, stock-still in evening sun,
grinning as foxes parade.

Then - because he sees them - a miracle opens
a chamber from way-back; when
Mum left the house with her soft, wild
eyes. Tears for the name of a child

and this feel for his children is real, wet, deep
and his heart, an old hare, looks - and leaps.

Andrew's Intensity

After all
you do need
to visit a Musical,
sing and clap and bounce,
leading a crowd in their approbation
of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang;
every fibre tuned into
the harmony
of it all.

Inaudible

Breath gives
movement
in the chest
a lifelong zest
in every instant
a new breath test
first gift at birth
last gift of all
a breathing space
between the hush
a breathing spell
ephemeral
ushering out
ushering in
breathtaking
breathable now.

Double

One day, when not myself, I might just split;
not so I could turn into someone else
but to evolve into a new myself.


No joke, no time for tiny giggling fits:
oh no, one day I might well have the balls
to make a stand and stand beside myself.

White Lines

Keeping on side

is a good trick of memory

is an excellent habit.

A chap uncontained

by white lines while traveling

by now would be sleeping

so best stay on over

far away from your burial

for as long as is possible

but sometimes the devil

rants ‘what the hell matey!’

and I can be spotted

taking a corner

with wheels all a-straddle,

laughing and getting away.

Romancing a Pot Belly Sow

Black eyes are sublime, hooded by frayed ears,

as if peering through a shaman’s comb;

dissecting and blurring

everything changes,

behind her veil, her curtain.

Back-hair is a springy hedge

and, every time a person whispers,

she turns to listen;

more inquisitive than most

who lay and snort in the sun.

Front legs are pretty as a ballerina,

delicate and curvy,

on point. Her face,

elongated, has that quality

of a knowing smile

beneath a tasteful snout,

a bit like flexible hose;

short and smooth,

snuffling like a snorkel:

so sweet, so fat, so slow.

Everything seems

Every step seems a part of a journey,

every twig on the ground from a tree,

every glittering pebble seems earth-born,

every droplet returns to the sea.

Every leaf seems inspired by sunshine,

all lightening leaps downward from friction,

a mountain stands hopeful away on a rim,

every star reaches backwards from time.

Heart seems a kettle, your pulse seems a hum,

fingers a chance for connection,

brain seems a small constellation,

ear-holes but beats on a drum,

your pelvis a key in rotation:

wake up there’s a bite on your bum.

Chameleon

Some archetype

disturbed my mammal eye.

An unmoving,

unblinking,

unlicking

stare

made me swear a dragon

could leap from

a wooden body

and scorch me raw;

eyebrows and hair.

Bought it

In coach B, an old man drops his bag

on a seat. This is England; it rains outside

and he fiddles with iphone, earplugs, lifts a lid

on his laptop, Apple, opening like a split fruit.

Along, a train guard asks for ‘tickets from Sheffield’

and -ding- ‘the catering car is open’;

for this, I squirted petrol, fought my traffic,

queued to hold a watery cup of tea?

Hole-in-the-wall, plastic card, keep bags with you:

yes, and look down all the train to see

miniaturisation, conformity, Noah’s ark,

a valid ticket, all aboard, let’s start.

And grizzled, average, lit by electricity,

an old man fiddles gadgets, flexes digits, sleeps.