the longest night
summer’s window opens wide on
a motorbike forever going nowhere
uphill a dog is barking antiquity and
all the gargoyles of nuisance are
spouting of blather’s growling
long pink clouds on a powderpuff blue
are shredding in captain scarlet
in the heat of reentry
rehearsing is failing to sleep
again rings again and again
the window is shuttered
has spluttered its last say on
a breath drawn of sorrow for
here’s a watery moon of no abode
arrested of time’s insouciance
poetry
the baggage belt
you place your poem
with the familiar ribbon
a stranger picks it
unpacks it
sorts the duty free
from the sun’s lingerie
wish you were there
spills everywhere
give me a minute
the past is the cuckoo
that defenestrates the present
the yesteryear
that nudges yesterday
even a moment ago
out of the nest
of just a minute
give me a minute
that lasts a lifetime’s last moment
just a jest a minute
the incubus of expectation
of friends’ concern
when all you want to do
is forget that you have forgotten
remember that
hello aunty may
my aunty may
every day on my way
to grammar school
she was scrubbing the foyer
of the clothes store’s mezzanine
when i think of the zinc bucket
the floor cloth grey
on my way
hello aunty may
miscarriage
train crash
some die
some walk away
with why
my carriage’s
miscarriage
two to collide
too terrible
to be spilt and spilled
along the track
in a field of thought
of missed points
the driver died
red
in tooth and be cause
they tried
but signally failed
to get it
forget it
just forget it
after all
it’s just
unjust
after all
what can be said or done
for it’s done
too late now
mutters down the track
i’m late
the dead are the late
the living said
that the dead said
we have an appointment
with …
plop
the prince in every childhood is a frog
popping up everywhere and nowhere
jumping in surprise
both the child and the frog
stare in bemusement
but i like you
i do
but i have to go now
dinner is ready
and mum is calling
quick quick
plop
RS Thomas’s white washed cottage
the white washed words
that slipped a finger pointing out
how god could have written it
but passed the understanding
to the wind’s night
to the tree’s cold root-stone
when the silence spoke
his pen whistled
now and then a word spun
and he smiled a frown
and wrote it down
for us in black on white
leaving the gate swinging
