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

   

like a robin, a lost word reappears and is gone again

   

and suddenly you are someone from the flatlands staring at peaks

 

opens curtains, wipes condensation from the window, finds it’s misty outside