Broken Lyre
You cannot see her
for the soft blue of the firmament –
she dresses to be lost,
slow dances the turning earth,
takes refuge in the pluck
of a single string.
Draw closer, pick out the harm –
a rip through sleeve to skin;
note how she does not flinch
leans toward the denouement
Our table is vacant at the Walker café
I pray for you
before Dante’s Dream
retrace our steps
beyond The Sense of Sight
walk back past Pietà, rest
in room five, and tell you
how the cabinet of amber and ivory
created in 1700 to hold treasures
is too heavy for me now –
all riches too much to care for
when all I want is weightless
First published in Issue 1 of The High Window
Read MoreAfter Cezanne
I saw a bowl of peaches on your desk,
no books, there were no words, no heat,
no candles spilling light. My life
was closed in your still hand,
I moved a finger slow across washed skin,
held fruit in my hands, rain fell soft,
small drops appeared above your lips
and hail hit windows.
First published in Crannóg
Read MoreThe Paper Tree
I thrash from a sea bed to the surface, breathe,
backstroke through dreams. Last night –
Oxford. Jericho, cafes lit
in the afternoon. A panini, an Americano,
and I’m in every cafe where I talked with him
from here to Rosapenna.
The years flicker – notebook pages turn –
the story sleeps. I dig into my bag
for scissors, shred and quill paper. A tree rises
from the pages’ heart: its branches frayed.
The table is scattered with paper remnants –
the book won’t close:
I hug it to me, leave
and wander through crisp air. The tree
in my arms as my boots echo
I am with him again –
late at night in a cellar bar,
drinking till we fall.
First published in Prole
Read MoreReliquary
A high pitch of mandolin and bazouki,
the clack of backgammon counters;
some place drenched with mint,
jasmine, and sweet coriander;
where night is absorbed into morning,
where the sound of the tide
is soothing white noise;
where there are no borders –
streets fall to the beach,
cedar watch waves, know secrets;
where there is no distinction
between memory and dream:
I pour myself, an offertory –
wake with incantations on my lips.
First published in Issue 1 of The High Window
Read MoreLiverpool Lime Street, Sunday Night
A wind like a paring knife peels the platform,
lights are dim and two androgynous guards
pace, cheeks bulging before the next blast,
a screel of suitcase wheels, a last minute stampede,
high pitched yells, a pause – and the whistle –
a semibreve as the train pulls out.
Boys and girls, men and women,
two by two, pressed against railings,
arms hidden inside each other’s clothes.
Slow angel kisses, eyelids and cheeks,
then, Eskimo style, and sometimes, a change
of beat, butterfly kisses. My queue is single file,
chins to necks, stamping feet,
blowing into fisted hands. Vacant eyes.
I want to be in the kissing queue.
First published in Crannóg, 2014
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