Stitching

I was holding the edge of your skirt;

it was tough fustian, 

the kind of artisan thing

with the hard stitching

of a babushka

which it has become fashionable

to fashion and indeed wear here

in Brooklyn, when I finally woke up;

and shook off pain,

if not killed it,

with the waking up of words I first read,

or heard spoken on warm lips

not above crowds really

but really above a vent

and the backdrop of an apartment

block.

And it was cold but not truly Christmas.

I favour the truth now älskling

it won’t hurt to say,

a thing like; I love you

and the tough edge of your artisan’s skirt

though you’ve never yet worn it

or owned it,

and once again I’ve let

the appropriateness of an image

take truth one stich further

than I oughta,

because it sounded better. 

Desert

You were with the Sufi,

last time I looked,

holding on to his skirts,

as the red eyed hashishin,

offered you small glass cups of tea, 

sweeter then a child’s voice

from the damp sheets of a dream

I will look again, one day soon,

and I don’t know what to expect,

except a sand storm, 

crumbling ramparts, 

the slow hooves of a camel

and you, sheathed in silks,

protecting your eyes from the sun. 

Lawyers

All I said I’d do is sit here,

waiting for your hand to lift its fist

clenched to hit, waiting is all I did

"I share your frustration" you said,

as I clenched mine,

and in the rattling of a sabre,

or the snarl of a dog, it was over,

all those careful acts scattered

and now in boxes, stacked

jumbled in storage, or half tumbled

from cupboards,

this was never the way of war,

armies should range in rank

careful generals assess the valley

and the direction of the wind

before their volleys are cast;

because it’s a serious business 
to hack the flesh of men, 
it calls for doctors and poets,

but when we came at eachother,

the war against terror 

was year younger than us; 

and we had only lawyers.

Soft-focus

I’ve been thinking of walking

with you to the beach

because it's there I’d like to see you,

I’d weave in and out the waves with you,

And you’d wet your feet

as I laugh like a crashing gul.

and as it began to rain some

soft and easy arpeggio

I’d capture you forever

legendary like the Leitz thamber 90mm

the epitome of soft-focus, before high street

snappers, lost forvever that edge of 30s cool.

And I’d keep you there, in my image,

to look back on after the waves have advanced

higher than nostrils

when all we hear is the

laughing of crashing guls. 

Anenome

Your hand on my lip,

testing the hardening bristle

finding dimly;

baby simplicity nothwithstanding,

your father there sure as any rusk

And he feeling flimsy for you,

not tough enough to take

firm hands to your wavering grasp

like coral, or a polyp

in the terrifying sea, anchored

to it’s maternal unyielding spot

I am the passing diver

or maybe even still 

just a flickering fish 

heading back to shallows

or perhaps I am an anemone

filtering these cold currents

for nourishment,

and my hard worn hand,

flashes with yours, reaching

ever hopeful in the darkness. 

River Stories

You said if the river carries more than mud 

you’ve yet to see it, but I saw a tern take an eel, 

and in the challenge of slower beaks drop it.

And I know that eel wriggles it’s Sargasso desperate dance

into banks where mudlarks take their chance

hoping for storied relics;

the musket ball with tooth attached,

the jawbone of a bronze age girl 

whose mission for mussels ended in a muddy trip

and countless rings thrown in anger 

or lost from fasting fingers 

when the boatman dropped an oar

This river carries more than mud, 
and hides a world besides

Stories folded in the filthy loam 
and sent on a spring tide home. 

Old Eyes

He's in frames big enough for a child to climb

and being long-sighted his eyes loom large

lids like giant moths fan lenses,

cooling perhaps the thoughts

which overheat his mottled corneas,

constricting the pupil who’s learned too much.

What longed for return to easy times,

before lines linked nose and chin?
what devastating dreams of days when skin

less grey stretched taught across that

sacrificial skull?

It’s no secret; time makes an enemy of our cells

and when the dance of summer days is done

we’re left to search the dimming light

for children climbing, 


their sharp eyes not sharp enough see

the place they’re climbing to;

the wise and wizened eyrie of the old.