Marching

I looked up in drizzle

to see the far hills;

knuckles of a fist inching forward

as I walked

And in the lowing grey

a mourning moon rested 
her hymnbook under 
that famous round chin,

then dropped it to shine

unexpectedly,

like the outbreak of laughter at a wake

or the fast march home from war. 

The Entertainment

Hers was a stuttering demotic voice

All it’s aitches dropped like a stich

For effect, and the tautening of

Conversational canvas, bringing

The audience in like lobster pots

Full of scuttling claws,

His was a declamatory style

Of the old kind, pier end stuff

Bellowing fondly through

Wind rouged cheeks

Netting his catch with a twirl

Familiar from TV in the days

Before phone-ins

And with routines dispatched

Half laughers and kids off

To hunch over flip-penny

And shoot-em up, to take in

The sweet fat of a donut

Or to sit on the sea wall

Chucking chips at guls

He turns his wiped eyes to hers

Her hand, clairvoyant or just 

Well-rehearsed finds his and tightens

With all the promise of a life

In lights, which may yet appear

Like a rescue mission or plans for

Lottery funded re-generation

They are relics, waiting to be found

And young enough to have no

Property or place, outside the ricking pier

Nothing to stop them coming here

For the faltering applause

And the indifferent sea whose waves

Could hardly choose these shores.

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.