Apricot
Forget me not
The empty cot
The killer robot.
Phrases that until today I never expected to see together.
One lives, one learns, one dies.
Poetry?
Rest. Sleep. Recover.
Rest. Sleep. Recover.
Rest. Tea. Sleep. Recover.
Rest. Tea. Sleep. Coffee. Recover.
Rest. Tea. Cake. Sleep. Coffee. Cake. Recover.
Rest. Sleep. Recover.
And I will be there to hold you.
When all the clocks
When all the clocks tick toxic
When all the stars are magic
When all the clouds disappear from above
There is only one thing it can be –
On feeling a story
The imagination of the senses: the sight,
the smell, the touch – oh, the touch –
the deep deep stirring words bring.
On World Poetry Day she said
Don’t like poetry. Don’t like poems.
She said.
I like words.
She said.
Your words. Not poems.
She said.
I did.
The wood you stand on
The wood you stand on, washed up flotsam on the stones,
once held my father’s weight above the waves;
the rusted bolt you kick with a thoughtful frown
kept closed the press which held his family maps.
It will be a found feature in your off-white apartment,
a reminder of the sea to bring the old outdoors inside.
Treat it kindly, with due respect.
It held safe their lives until that day
and now outlives them.
Night wish
May dreams’ slow flight light the golden way to morning
The darkness hides
The darkness hides the miles; they’re gone.
A whispered word
and a wish tied together fly –
tomorrow spring birds will sing.
My shadow is my closest friend
My shadow is my closest friend;
she understands me.
In the darkness of the darkest night
I light a candle to see her close again.
Living with a poet
The nets on the quayside are not the wiles with which I charmed you. They’re nets. They’re not the fisherfolk’s dreamcatchers that took our ambition. They’re nets.
The dinghy bobbing on the incoming tide is not your spirit that soared when you first saw me at the party. It’s a boat. It’s not our hopes and dreams before the love tide turned. It’s a boat.
The gulls that swoop down on the flecks of foam are not poembirds. They’re gulls. They are not lyric snatchers from the frothing deep. They’re gulls.
My heart is not – my heart is not a cartoonish pink, arrow-pierced. It’s my heart. It’s not, I’m afraid, any words that you may say. It’s my heart. And yes, it’s broken, but it will mend.
