I am going to bed to feel cool cotton on my back
I am going to bed to fall fast asleep with my nose in a book
I am going to bed to wonder what trend not to follow
I am going to bed to plan out every tomorrow
On Father’s Day
On Father’s Day he used to pretend he wasn’t bothered but mum told us he used to smile to himself and tell her he loved us. Later we found every card we ever sent him in a plastic bag inside a box inside another plastic bag. We think they were in year order.
You play with my heart
You play with my heart like a second-hand toy
You know it’s been in the dirt and scuffed skinless
With a flick of your fingers the heartache begins
You wear my love at your throat like a necklace
CHORUS
ANOTHER VERSE
CHORUS
ANOTHER VERSE
CHORUS
CHORUS TO FADE
Breathe, he said below his breath
He stood three steps down from the road crossing and two in towards the shop window the back of his head was reflected in. Breathe, he said below his breath. Breathe. He used his thin hands as a brown paper bag and began to feel better. His vision slowed its spinning and he could almost focus on the police van parked opposite. Hello John, said the voice again. Not bad, he said, and yourself? But I didn’t ask you, said the voice. I just said hello.
That’s more than I’m used to.
That’s as may be.
Much more.
I must be going.
Please don’t go, he said below his breath. Please. He unbuttoned his coat as if he had arrived home.
I am going to bed (3)
I am going to bed to collect my thoughts
I am going to bed to smell the pines from this morning’s walk
I am going to bed to shape the pillow to my head
I am going to bed to breathe slowly and sweat
I am going to bed (2)
I am going to bed to remember
I am going to bed to forget
I am going to bed to smell the coffee
I am going to bed to gaze at the photo standing next to me
I am going to bed (1)
I am going to bed to eat biscuits, drink tea
I am going to bed to read well-translated poetry
I am going to bed to lie with clenched fists
I am going to bed to dream of a kiss
I was possible
I was possible before you. I was.
But now, now.
Xylella
The olive trees are dying and we must burn them, dry twigs, snapped branches, roots.
In the late-morning sun and the silence of the old men’s tears, the sound of axes. Hard hands are torn. Children watch from the shade, sparrows in the thorny oak.
For centuries the trees have given and now it seems an end. But we, green-hearted, hopeful, we shall plant again and our grandchildren shall harvest.
Musée Matisse
south sunshine starred night
pure colour pure light
