Pen

A pen is
not a word

a word is
not this shape

the shape is
not a sound

the sound is
not a thought

a thought is
not a pen.

Fountain

Fountain




Described by stylus into the

parterre, a fountain: in design

quatrefoil, lilypads perhaps,

the waters of creation held

by a low concrete wall, its eye,

a double Janus-head, addressed

the four corners of the round world,

stone-blind. Its north face was carved as

a child, the next a chimera,

the third was that of a soldier,

and the final was agèd, each

spouted limpid water as though

it were given truth, the life-cup,

the tale of wealth and bought vision,

as though it were cheap as bone, and

all the splashed blood were washed away,

forgot, and each hour o’ the clock

a watchman’s shout, a phallic plume

declared time’s subjugation,

the Sisyphean victory.








.

Boxing Day

Boxing Day


The future of flesh:

bitter chocolate

and sweet regret.

Passed

sped past, trop vite,

a boy, 10 or 11,

white shirt, worried

face anxious, perhaps,

to be home.

Moments later

a disturbance of the air.

A death and a wake.

Against the prevailing

When the wind drops

body lightens,

steps lengthen,

home quicker, warmer

but, except to draw breath,

feint, and come back

all the harder

the wind never stops.

Quietly

Hinges oiled.

Doors no longer

semaphore

every movement

around the house.

I leave you

and return

unnoticed but

the floorboard

betrays me.

Early morning

Early. Walk 
to buy milk.

Wind scuds the road
raises dust-
-devils forces 
tears to haul 
behind them
pails-full 
of grief, fear
of your death.

Returning.
Milk and bread.

Sun warms my spine
unshadows 
the blackbirds’
aerial song
bidding accepting – 
brick, privet, cars
iridesce.

Arc of the 
bridge connects.

One walk
one day
home.