So unexpected —
peaches in a Devon garden
thick furred, early fallers.
In May you’d stroke each stamen
with a fine brush,
going bud to bud,
puckish
you watched for the fruit
willing summer’s ripeness.
When you died
the branches cracked
like cooling ash
the branches cracked
when you died.
Willing summer’s ripeness,
you watched for the fruit,
puckish,
going bud to bud
with a fine brush,
that May, stroking each stamen.
Thick furred, early fallers,
peaches in a Devon garden.
So unexpected —
Poems
If I swallowed a tree
I would kiss you with buds
let leaves fall
on you.
I would reach out fingers
into a song-filled sky
to wake you
at dawn.
I would blossom inside,
blooming with foliage
amaze you
in green.
I would hold you tightly
in circles round my heart;
burn high when
you leave.
Published in Clarion 1
Horn’s Cross
Stepping out from Combestone Tor
across moor hardened by a western wind
Horn’s Cross stands alone.
A bruiser of hammered granite wounded with lichen
its half formed arms reach out
surrendering to a cold sky.
Monks stopped along the Maltern Way
threading their way through graves
to Buckfast honey and garden beans.
Tellers counted their flock, cows rubbed flanks,
now walkers lean against its iron backbone,
pausing for half a sandwich.
This is not a marker of a beginning
nor an end, but of constant passing,
where searching doesn’t end in stone,
but to an undistinguished path
filled with voices from the past
guiding us from behind.
Visitors
They picked wild garlic, dandelion leaves, early nettles,
pennywort and primroses to make a salad,
a bowlful of riverbank
left in a Tupperware box for lunch.
They forgot it in the rush to catch the train.
I froze it, with my unanswered questions, for later.
Now the primroses shiver under misted plastic
like pale faces of children drowning in green water.
Published in Green Ink – Forage
Milk teeth
I shake them out like dice,
relics from another age.
They are evidence
of softer years,
still stained at the sharp end
by touches of blood,
knuckles of moon
blossomed
from raw gums.
New-borns, levered out,
usurped.
They were hardly held.
Now in dreams
my mouth
fills with teeth
I spit them out,
one by one, until
they are all gone.
Published in Literary Mama
Sand on the stairs
Don’t come to me like a dull bell at noon.
Come with a sea shanty in your eyes,
pink shells in your pocket and salt on your fingertips.
Bring me gorse humming with heat from the cliff,
squill, thrift and sea poppies.
Bring lace skimmed from the edge of a wave.
When you go, leave sand on each stair
so I can still feel your rub at every step.
First published in Smoke No 70 Summer 2023
Ode to mobility-buggy riders
They are warriors, these women
who glide out onto the street
flashing their indicators
more than is strictly necessary.
They open their faces to the sun
like poppies, waving to neighbours,
their hands gnarled as oak bark,
feet armoured in dirty slippers.
They beat their bounds, natty in berets,
sometimes with cats on their laps.
We witness these jaunts but never stop to talk.
We fear these pavement days. Soon,
we too will leave dusty unused rooms
sallying forth shoeless into the blessed sun.
First published by Typishly June 2023
Black swan
It didn’t turn out as I expected,
the ache of life went its own way.
I wasn’t ready for much beyond
the softness of white wings
I wanted to fall into
their folds deep as cream,
a wiping out of self.
But here you are, red beaked,
gliding grimly beside the muddied edge
carrying broken twigs,
dragging green weed,
pressing towards me
spitting, unasked for,
with hawthorns in your eyes.
I borrow your feathers, brittle as brush,
a widow’s camouflage, marked out.
You beat on against the tide, ruffling water.
I gather haws from the bank,
weave twigs into rafts,
stretch out my neck
for a second chance.
First published in Orbis 199 (March 2022)
Piano
You were my middle C.
An upright flush with polish
on which we placed the most important things.
You played in all weathers,
dampers soaking up the years of voice,
ending in the stillest pianissimo.
Now labelled sheaves of music
line the shelves, parchment thin
and all the hammers thunder
furiously out of time.
First published online by Coverstory Line breaks (Dec 2021)
White Island
I join you on your island twice a month.
I am punctual, mooring carefully, so that I can leave on time.
I find you hunkering down among the armchairs
washed up in a clearing of white space.
The walnut bureau looms above a scattering of flotsam,
finger-worn fish knives, napkin rings, forgotten glasses.
Today it’s tropical, steam rising from radiators
spread with sheets, pyjamas, pants.
In the distance, the falling notes of a flute,
the purr of machines settling for the night.
You have stopped going to the edges to look out,
you stare down, as though searching for a coin,
lost in this familiar place where the rooms fall in
upon themselves and all around is the swell of other lives.
First published in New Contexts 2 (2021)