Tag: poem

Fire In The Upper Field

There was a moment today where the sun hit
the leaves of the tree by the upper field
and it shone dazzling copper

I stood in quiet awe
like I had found hidden treasure
or witnessed an unexpected birth
and the leaves glowed and smouldered
for a few seconds
as if small god had thrown handfuls of pennies
into the sky

Against the gilt backdrop
he walked all that way
and I could see the shape of him
cut against the gold and shimmer
the pace of his walk
as he came to find me
and to talk

Daily Bread

We learn names fast 
on this street 
by watching footwork 
hearing them chant 
for whoever holds court 
a victory at their feet 
that can’t be bought 

Scuffed school shoes 
toeing the ball  
this way, that
lost again in seconds flat 
again, again, again 
cawing verbs, begging 
for a battered balloon
a sphere so tattered 
one could assume 
it nears death 

Again, for it they call 
a squalling clutch of baby birds 
leak, lank 
breathing cold air  
like ship steam 
bolting up the flank –
the hot chimneys  
of their unblemished lungs 
pumping fuel 
a scrabble, a dance 
none too cool for 
rough knees and shins 

Their backwards prance 
gains pace, with speed 
stab and volley 
thrilled, each shriek in kind 
as the ball flies upwards 
they gaze, running blind 
their ragged god  
lost in the winter sun 

Exhibit


Someone hung her, years ago,
on a wall –
stole her,
ripped her right out of a book.

Isn’t she magnificent?
Take a closer look.

You could almost touch her hair –
very fine and
so red,
releasing a perfume into the sky.

Is she looking at you?
Try not to catch her eye.

You could almost feel her skin –
pastel and damp
with cold;
her neck is bruised and plum.

I wonder, does she care?
Perhaps she’s numb.

You might fall in love with her
all at once
like this;
you may think you hear her cry

but she will not answer –
so don’t ask her why. 

Brining


Seaweed slides through my knees
Stringed beads of brown
I comb its greased locks 
And I daren’t look down

But I feel the traffic of murk
The mystery of this deep
The swell of its breaths
A monolith heartbeat

The shore is a distant seam
Hemmed in against the sunlight
My cheeks dry like clay bowls
Polished and tight

Later, I shall leave slack prints
Across the naked asphalt
Bite the skin near my nails
And taste salt

The romance of doing nowt

let’s chill here for a thousand years
lounge like Hollywood vampires who yearn
light a candle to be dead romantic
and not watch a second of its slow burn

let’s not talk or try to learn anything
about anything, but be still as a stare
go nowhere, see how long we can lay like this
matted and tangled together like hair

let’s stretch out our limbs ’til we touch the wall
finger the paintings until they all fall
and imprint on our skin, then move the colours
or we could stay still, and not move at all

but if one day we do want to go, get up slow
drift together until the sun explodes, then
float like poplar seeds, the summer snow –
that might actually be nice, you know

What it’s like to be lonely at night

at first, it is faint
like some underlying
sourness of milk
a lacking fullness
the creeping sense
of error before
the realisation of one

without a burst
there is a drip
a leak in the dark
it saturates you
turning your sheets
cold and leaden
and you wake up 

flooded