Spears of Mountain Grass

 

Spears of mountain grass bronze tipped

and edged, grading to gold, to green;

tufts splayed like ceremonial headdresses,

gleaming in the already golden sunlight,

resplendent.

Bowled over by the glories I’d missed,

with narrower eye, I see patches of azure sky

along the track, yellow-green grasses combed

smooth by rushing flood water in culverts,

silver-glinting mica in the siding rocks,

magnificent.

Beneath the mountains, the rain-reflected gleam

of low sun into my eyes is a celebration

of the bejewelled growth along the wayside,

the play of light, water and mountain breezes

dizzying, fire-working my senses into exhilaration,

and profound joy.

Ambition

 

Love found us sleeping with multiples

of ourselves

as we divined

all of us that we are, strove towards

all we could be,

and, imagining the best we could never be,

endeavoured to be those too.

It Blurs

 

What I didn’t expect:

it all blurs.

What a rare ol’ time it was:

blurred;

what closeness:

blurred;

what excitement:

blurred.

How tight we were;

what nights we had;

what we wouldn’t have done;

what we wouldn’t have done for each other;

it blurs;

all of it blurs.

Deforestation

 

Deforestation:

another cancer-ridden lung,

its blackening tissue,

from the air,

ugly as any tumour,

as aggressive a cancer

as would cause any patient

to stop.

Sense Action Being

 

Tiger rests, tongue slakes flames,

zen-like in shadow patch

beneath over-arching fronds;

when earshot goes click,

eyesight opens in coin flick,

Tiger, sunlight in leaves,

silent on padded paws

muscle tide carpeted,

sense, action, being, crouched

in cave opening of eyes;

springs sheltered beneath fangs

gush bright silver streams,

Tiger turns dreamy.

Imagining

 

imagine

the dim muddy sunlight that filters into lake water

imagine

those perfectly round, olive green leaves drifting by

trailing their spiralis stems behind them

imagine

bubbles here and there rising like nascent stars innately

aware of the presence of sky

imagine

in that place, a man drifts by, a ripple of life with a vague light

from half open eyes

imagine

his love similarly, lying on his back as they flow, her eyelids

heavy like his

imagine

the depth’s silence caressing their bodies with luxurious density

imagine

their eyes see you as they pass, but regard you as incidental as

any sight along their way

imagine 

that oneness, close your eyes and think of it

Wooden Posts

 

Two wooden posts, maybe five metres apart,

driven into the ground near the edge of a moor,

a desolate, wild expanse;

the connecting fence long since gone.

Two estranged lovers

standing at the edge of each others’ company,

maintaining their rigid positions

in vast pointlessness.

Home Cinema

 

How magical it all was:

all of us gathered in the sitting-room,

watching every moment of the setting up

of screen and projector, the reels fitted

into place, lights turned off, then click

and whirr and our own cinema,

the impossible happening before our eyes.

Now, cine-camera, projector and screen,

most likely broken, taking up space in our attic;

a few reels of film tossed in a box, unseen

by anyone for many years.

And those faces, blurred behind grainy footage

and jumpy camera-work: dead, long dead

most of them; before our children’s memories.

Ah, old magic, even I won’t risk seeing them again.

Arrogance

 

Misplaced and crass,

worn like plate armour

by a man who'll pass

completely, 

almost as quickly

as his breath on glass.

Half a Greeting Card

 

Between the leaves of a book, I find half a greeting card;

the picture, not the message.

The book has been a long time untouched,

but the card has stirred something; I cannot remember;

was it put there to remember?

The years pass, the books collect on the shelves,

here and there marked with tokens from our lived lives;

moments we once considered worth marking,

now lost among the abandoned books,

the millions pages past.

A Bright Night Blue

 

Blue,

bright night blue,

painted evenly across the sky.

A moon’s yellow halo low above the dunes,

smooth undulating dunes,

or lovers, perhaps:

smooth curved backs of lovers

in a lamp’s yellow halo,

and the slow shift of sand grains

along night’s gentle breezes

or the slow drift of lovers

along their gentle breathing.

Your Photograph

 

The photograph on the wall has turned blue;

I can’t remember the original colours,

and the image is turning into fog.

I’d forgotten what year you died;

a few years ago, I assumed,

then I was told it was  fifteen.

A person dies; you thrash around in the memories;

finally a day arrives and you’re not remembering,

then more days pile in.

My memory of you is turning blue;

I have forgotten the original colours,

and you are turning into fog.

Roots and Beauty

 

The roots must beg in the shit and mud,

among the carcasses and the decomposed;

spindling whiskers around grains holding

water tight as briefcases of money; feeling

with pin-sized tips their way through

snake-pit of competitors; tunelling eyeless

to regurgitate eternally life’s slop.

To break through to the light in multi-armed

resplendence like  Hindu Gods; their fanned

out canopies of leaves and blossoms: glorious;

beauty like swans above the water-line,

a million miles removed from their subterranean 

engine-rooms.

She Carried the Sun

 

Every droplet of rain is a droplet of sunlight;

the windows are a million suns flowing down;

light is shining from under our feet, from the roofs

and pavements, streets and windscreens.

Then you pass, and as nets might overflow with fish,

you hair is sunlight right down to backs of your knees.

This is a memory.

A momentary event like a meteorite crossing the sky

which I have elevated to sacredness in my mind,

for a mind needs its torches,

it needs its flares.

Meeting at Nursing Home During the Pandemic

I must make an appointment

though we set the pendulum of our lives;

I must meet you through glass

though our breathing was one;

I must talk across a distance

though our words and breath were one;

I must put my hand to the glass

though happiness was the heat of your skin;

I must go away

though you are my home.