Monday, 31 October 2016

Stains Scribbled on the Soul

What if there's a name or a face
tattooed tiny beneath the creases
that hold the pieces of us together?


What if some deity painted
our destiny on with indian ink
when it was seriously drunk?

Then went off for a yorky pud
dinner at its mam's and forgot
to add map points to the places
where we're supposed to meet?

What if every stranger our feet take
us towards are lost to the same mistake?

Some God too into wine and we're fucked.
A face and a name, but no breadcrumbs;
that way home to The One overlooked by
the divine forgetfulness of a alchy power
too hammered to help with the details,
so we flounder from one to another for decades?

Origami entities made wonky
by the reality of destiny scribbled
on when the moment was wrong.

Sunday, 30 October 2016

The Borders of Water

There are certain places where I fit best;
the underside of rusted cans, the bottom of ponds.
I am the girl with a sea-glass soul, rubbed the texture
of ancient harbour walls. A creature of the tides.

Then you arrive with your fur, with your mountain ways.
As sure as a stag at dusk, comfortable in frost.
Regal in the rutting of things with hooves, with history.
A magnificent mythology of a man.

How can a lass buoyed out in an estuary
learn to swim the air where your antlers hook 

landscapes, reel in stars, net a whole solar system 
tame the way children do with frogspawn in jam jars?

Controlled by the shoreline, a constant sift of damp sand,

can a creature of water offer love to a man born for land?

Friday, 28 October 2016

Loss Is Haunting Here

Loss Is Haunting Here
(i.m Bart Wolffe)

You could say the streets are haunted.
Kerbs that behave with the constancy of rain.
It’s the going away that does it, the absence
in spaces where twinned-faces melt
into soft puddles. The pelagic depths of love.

And the ache of everything howls over the avenue.
A battalion of beeches bomb leaves of bronze
onto a town where the two of you once roamed.
Metallic entities corroding between street signs,
a rusted regret colouring the pathways with loss.

The heart is an open door that inhales your missing name.
Below the bus stop sign, the memory of a man.
A giant of a man, an atlas of words tucked in his hands.
Cupping a damp cigarette. A bright flame sparks out.