Sunday, November 18, 2018


nevertheless, you’ve reached sixty. tap the game clock: your move, cancer

 

digs out the leaf pit to the depth of several autumns, cuts a foothold to get out

   

afterwards, washes hands in the cold, glossy darkness of the rain barrel

 

no doubt she thinks you finicky, but her imprecision with requests and

instructions drives you crazy

   

waiting for the bus home, you watch a leaf bump against your boot

 

you start to get anxious that your house is just a home, and not ‘a curated space’

 

she asks the museum guide, ‘what’s the lemon about ?’

   

Friday, November 09, 2018


storm clouds

you’ll look the ogre

in the eye



[before finding out results of CT scan]



after the poets have wafted past you’ll start shoving autumn into sacks

 

a decent likeness: your reflection in the gallery window

 

goes through a tick box questionnaire with coffee but without a pen



not recognising

the witches

because

it was dark and

they were witches



[Halloween]

thinks it unfamiliar birdsong but it’s just the squeak of a barrow’s wheel