Islander - by
A few treeless meadows awaited your text
amid the overtones of Rackwick where next
to scriptory herds, you sermonised to shoals
how poetry’s an archipelago of souls:
A few treeless meadows awaited your text
amid the overtones of Rackwick where next
to scriptory herds, you sermonised to shoals
how poetry’s an archipelago of souls:
When is a wood not a wood. She points out the cold
pillboxes left behind by WW2.
You will not need kindling.
I think I’ll go up quick
as summer timber, my anger
big and dry as a plantation
that dreams of being paper:
Awful, just terrible, isn’t it dreadful, the feeling I get when I think about
you.
mirror images, mirror people how can I escape them,
my own reflection in the water of time?
the cyclops who survives on unspoken thoughts?
For the times aheadwhen we will be as if at either endof the long bench where distance keptis love’s measure and death dancesthe space between when words aloneare not enough and queued memories reach out to touch let longing be a storeof nut and seed that grows each day in strange hibernation readying for its […]
Air a ghlùinean sa ghàrradh
a’ cruinneachadh ùir
mar ùrnaigh na làmhan,
A Cheòlraidh chreagach, ghuaineach
Triallaidh mi bho bhàrr do ghuailne,
Mar fhaoilinn na linne sgaoilte
Beiridh mi air fead na gaoithe.
I imitated pitch perfectly, declined with
authority and wondered why people only
stared.
Was she then a lover,
a wife, a sister, cousin, aunt?
Was she laid there in jest,
as a punishment, as an example?
The staves steady under foot; she knows which to
avoid. A creature of habit, the kettle warms.
First on scene, emergency services
score you six and leave without me.
I tail the silence of blue lights,
abandon the car in the ambulance bay.