You always were the first: born before me
(three years, seven months and sixteen days).
You got a head start
and kept on running.
It wasn't fair that I could never catch
this stolen march.
You were the first in every game,
the leader of our pack of two.
Early morning expeditions:
out our bedroom window, down the drainpipe to the grass
(our feet trailed silver in the damp)
A beech hedge framed our little world;
the woods beyond were dark and deep.
You'd wait until I cleared the trees
so we could run together
-splendid in our isolation.
Sea at our feet, wind at our backs,
it felt like we were flying,
crying with the gulls.
It felt like we could live forever
but that was long ago
and where you have gone
I can no longer follow.
Tuesday, 12 February 2013
smugglers
Quiet is the town and the town clock-tower,
And quiet rock the boats on the sea.
The trees on the hill are standing as still
And as straight as Cathy and me.
‘Keep warm in your beds, don’t worry your heads,
always let sleeping dogs lie.
Cover your eyes and don’t say a word
While the Gentlemen go by.’
But Cathy and me
Are fearless and brave
And we followed the smugglers
Right down to their cave.
Stacked high were the boxes and casks
Of fine lace, French wine and Spanish gold.
The smuggler band they are wonderful grand:
Oh, I wish to be one when I’m old!
‘The smuggler’s life is one full of strife
whatever the songs that they sing.
Shot at and hounded by Preventive men,
And surely, my boy, you shall swing.’
But Cathy and me
Are bold and strong.
Surely the smugglers
Will take us along?
Quiet is the boat with the blue light burning
And quiet are the waves on the sand.
The Revenue men they are hid in the glen
To catch them when the boat comes in to land.
‘Cathy stay put with the smuggler loot,
and here is a candle for light.
I’ll warn the smugglers of the Revenue men:
They’ll not be taken tonight!’
Quick and quiet
And nimble am I.
And tell the smugglers
Where the Posse lie.
Quiet is the town and the town clock-tower,
And quiet rock the boats on the sea.
The gentlemen have gone home again
And so have Cathy and me!
seagull weather
Today
is a good day
for the seagulls.
Hat, coat, gloves, scarf;
rough fingers snag on wool.
Cold, smooth buttons.
The sky is fractured:
twelve panes of fragile, milky glass.
Etched fingertips that fade,
reappear,
developing slowly, as I breathe.
Today is a good day for the seagulls.
Unconfined
by frames and panes of glass,
they fall,
and soar: now hovering motionless;
now spiralling
high.
The wind: a whisper,
then a roar, tugs at my skirt and coat,
whirling me along the cobbled streets
and leaving me breathless.
Sunlight splinters on the waves;
the sky dances.
Today
is a good day.
for the seagulls.
Hat, coat, gloves, scarf;
rough fingers snag on wool.
Cold, smooth buttons.
The sky is fractured:
twelve panes of fragile, milky glass.
Etched fingertips that fade,
reappear,
developing slowly, as I breathe.
Today is a good day for the seagulls.
Unconfined
by frames and panes of glass,
they fall,
and soar: now hovering motionless;
now spiralling
high.
The wind: a whisper,
then a roar, tugs at my skirt and coat,
whirling me along the cobbled streets
and leaving me breathless.
Sunlight splinters on the waves;
the sky dances.
Today
sunday
Sleepy
Sunday morning
sun.
Blue-rimmed bowl.
Cold milk.
Ten o clock call
from home:
weather and the week that's past.
Sleepy Sunday morning
silence. Breathing in
fingers of life-giving, frosty
air.
Blue sky.
Sunday. Church bells, steady
beat, and patter, clatter:
children's feet running for the
goal.
Leaves on the hedge rustle and
chatter.
Snowdrops; white and green.
Flat blades piercing soil
by warm grey stones. Glass
kaleidoscoped against the light.
Blue sky
Sunday.
journey
Bags at my feet, scarf loose around my neck,
I lean against the railing,
waiting for the bus.
Darkness grows; the streets are slick with rain.
People stop, form straggly queues
then turn to talk or say goodbye.
Some perch on benches with no backs
legs hanging or feet planted on the floor.
Some stand or shift from spot to spot
look at their watch or station clock,
waiting for the bus. Then,
'After you'
'No, you were first'
'Your bag will need to go below'
'One return,' and 'here's your change' - find a seat and off we go.
The sweet, stale smell of crisps, dry air, damp clothes.
Raindrops on the windowpane leave shadows on my book.
People are hair and coats, cuffs and collars.
A rustle of crisp packets, flick of pages.
A hum of half-heard conversations; the muffled drone of music.
Some travellers do the crossword on their journey home,
solve puzzles with a pen and furrowed brow.
Kids play games or text their mates,
listen to music with a syncopated beat.
The long-haul travellers take a book, but mine lies idle in my lap.
I watch the cars, their lights and shadows,
put my forehead to the windowpane, and think.
Towns are lights and noise and people shuffling past.
Time passes swiftly: that house pulled down,
a shopping centre built.
Scaffolding that ebbs and flows and disappears,
leaving new buildings in its wake.
The fields are fallow, dark and ribbed with tractor scars.
But I, who travel this way often, know them in every season:
patched with scatterings of snow, the soil churned rich brown,
green with crops,
cracked and barren beneath an East Coast sky.
Towns are smaller now, cobbled streets beneath the tarmac,
Old stone houses, twisting wynds.
A boy who waits by the chippy door for a hand of warmth:
vinegar and salt in a squeaky polystyrene box.
More dark fields, with stubbled corn.
Houses, single-storey, a patch of garden by the road.
Distant lights flick in and out of darkness,
we are little bits of light in a sea of dark.
I lean against the railing,
waiting for the bus.
Darkness grows; the streets are slick with rain.
People stop, form straggly queues
then turn to talk or say goodbye.
Some perch on benches with no backs
legs hanging or feet planted on the floor.
Some stand or shift from spot to spot
look at their watch or station clock,
waiting for the bus. Then,
'After you'
'No, you were first'
'Your bag will need to go below'
'One return,' and 'here's your change' - find a seat and off we go.
The sweet, stale smell of crisps, dry air, damp clothes.
Raindrops on the windowpane leave shadows on my book.
People are hair and coats, cuffs and collars.
A rustle of crisp packets, flick of pages.
A hum of half-heard conversations; the muffled drone of music.
Some travellers do the crossword on their journey home,
solve puzzles with a pen and furrowed brow.
Kids play games or text their mates,
listen to music with a syncopated beat.
The long-haul travellers take a book, but mine lies idle in my lap.
I watch the cars, their lights and shadows,
put my forehead to the windowpane, and think.
Towns are lights and noise and people shuffling past.
Time passes swiftly: that house pulled down,
a shopping centre built.
Scaffolding that ebbs and flows and disappears,
leaving new buildings in its wake.
The fields are fallow, dark and ribbed with tractor scars.
But I, who travel this way often, know them in every season:
patched with scatterings of snow, the soil churned rich brown,
green with crops,
cracked and barren beneath an East Coast sky.
Towns are smaller now, cobbled streets beneath the tarmac,
Old stone houses, twisting wynds.
A boy who waits by the chippy door for a hand of warmth:
vinegar and salt in a squeaky polystyrene box.
More dark fields, with stubbled corn.
Houses, single-storey, a patch of garden by the road.
Distant lights flick in and out of darkness,
we are little bits of light in a sea of dark.
september
The year gave another shake, a shrug
that slipped into September's sharp-edged sun,
ripened plums to drunken mouthfuls
and fattened brambles on the bush.
Each year we'd take a basket, woven wicker
(darkened twists of long dead trees),
pick with greedy fingers berries
that would stain our hands with their heart's blood.
(Later, this would leach through sugar
in a copper crucible like alchemists of old) but for now,
summer's distillation left a sweetness on our lips, and this bitter pall:
the berries that are best are always out of reach.
Thursday, 17 January 2013
[North 2] the princess dresses herself
The doors of the chest swung open easily. A bewildering row of garments hung at eye-level, with a shelf for boots and shoes below. There was a soft, warm scent like lavender and honey, mixed with a sharper scent that the princess did not recognise. She grabbed at the first pair of boots and the sharp scent grew stronger. Wrinkling her nose, she sniffed the shiny leather, leaving a tiny smudge, which she tried to rub off with her finger.
Sitting on the floor, she held one boot in both hands and tried to put it on. After several tries, she threw the stupid boot under the stupid bed, and threw the other one after it for good measure. When Etta put her boots on for her she made it look easy.
Sitting on the floor, she held one boot in both hands and tried to put it on. After several tries, she threw the stupid boot under the stupid bed, and threw the other one after it for good measure. When Etta put her boots on for her she made it look easy.
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