Sunday, November 18, 2018


nevertheless

you’ve reached sixty

your move, cancer    

    
 click to enlarge 




digs out

the leaf pit

to the depth of

several autumns

cuts a foothold

to get out

   

washes hands in

the glossy darkness

of the rain barrel

 

no doubt she thinks you finicky

but her imprecision

with requests & instructions

drives you crazy

   

waiting for the bus home

you watch a leaf

bump against your boot

 

starts to get anxious

that our 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



[waiting for results of CT scan]
 

after the poets

have wafted past

you start

shoving autumn

into sacks

 

a decent likeness:

my reflection in

the gallery window

 

tick boxes

with coffee but

without pen

   

not recognising the witches

because it was dark

(and they were witches)



[Halloween]

not birdsong but 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