|
Day Trip to Warham
for Henry Cleverly
A chalk hillside, carved centuries ago
so men could watch the sun
and plot destinies by its angle.
I watch it now, my head filling,
the world narrowing
to an acute.
You are beside me.
I sense the human need
to turn and look but
am rivetted by light,
by an effort too great
to face you.
There's a distant fear;
a shape-shift to something
twitching my tail.
Voices turn inside out,
an empty glass clutched
to breaking point.
The light is too great
for filtering through semi-circles
of chalky grass.
Somewhere, miles away,
there's me, clamouring
for the dark.
24, rue de Cotte
for Finola O'Mahony
You depart in a whirl
of last minuting -
reminders of what to do,
of where to put myself.
Then you're gone, leaving me
to climb the four flights,
the ancient wood curving into itself,
held intact by two centuries of footfalls.
My feet must make adjustments,
to the climb,
to the six-sided floor tiles
in your apartment.
I'm still slipping,
and though you're not here
to pick me up,
I feel you in the mint walls;
the four roses drooping
after a night on the town;
the champagne stock-piled;
the sibilant hiss of the stereo
tuning into jazz.
And in that family shot -
we stare straight ahead,
you, the only one
not looking at the camera -
keeping a benign eye
sur la petite soeur.
A writer's life
I get to the Ferlinghetti part
but my eye keeps
from the print to the tiled floor,
to the powder crystalised around a cigarette-butt,
to the large madame checking the séchoir,
rippling the air as she shakes out sheets
she folds into huge squares.
To my left, the thumping swirl,
a constant spin of towels and underwear.
A black sock becomes for an instant
an agonised L pinned against glass,
then disappears into the vortex.
From NTH POSITION.COM 2003
|