Solstice
After the narrowing of days,
when fogs
lazed across fields, we await
this
time of turnings; frost might
kiss
our houses, gates, driveways,
dogs.
We swap dreams like shadows
under
a plump moon or afternoon
sun.
Grey grey skies shudder cold
upon
our faces; porches and
street-lamps shiver.
And what might such turning
reap?
Would there be relief from
floods
tornadoes, earthquakes,
droughts;
or maybe famines and the
tired plunder
of ice-caps under
trespassers’ steps?
Puddles could glaze like an aged mirror.
The Heart
Anatomically the heart
lies left below the breast bone
beats from dark to light
and light to dark again.
Soft through the nights
like rain on a tent canopy
that flaps stubbornly
with the turning weathervane.
But there are times
when the heart marches
like an opera chorus
rousing overtures and arias
to deluge the whole platform.
Mathematically the heart
has two chambers
one blue and one red
but it sends out longing
that is not like that.
More like a river
that traverses valleys
and sometimes rapids
sometimes the backs
of city streets, coal stacks,
sometimes nurturing cormorant
and kingfisher, songbirds
knotted reeds and secret trout.
Autumn
Once my favourite season.
Landscapes petalled in red
and orange. I gathered
conkers, their smooth brown
circles cooled the palms
of blackberring hands.
But now I dread
shortening days, raincoat
evenings, the first frost,
damp seeping to bone.
The calendar harvest
of absent birthdays.
Giraffe
All month a giraffe has been walking through
our rooms, sunlight glancing from his marbled
hide as he peers out of a window, chews
on clematis and honeysuckle.
We say nothing. Talking instead of unjust
wars, politics, drought, or the irritating habits
of neighbours. When friends visit
we shoo him into the box room.
But he understands nothing and plods
down - soft steps, his feet slipping
on floorboards as he snuffles his long lips,
under the sofa, searching for crumbs.
When summer comes and we take our holiday
we’ll each secretly plot how to escape him,
packing the car, calling we’ll not be leaving
for ages yet as we jump in and crash gears.
But down the motorway, in the hum
of engine and classic fm, we’ll turn
to see him stretch out on the back seat,
chocolate eyes blinking in the breeze.
Potters Bar
(after Auden)
Part I only (there are IV parts)
I
This is the accountant doubting the order
totting the costs of repairing disorder
faxing his boss for a second contractor
who passed it to Bloggs of Little Senshester.
Meanwhile the link wore thin and malign
the deal discussed over turbot and wine
and no-one saw the instructions in bold
the message said urgent, but no-one was told.
Bloggs’s bolts will fix rotted joints
to let the train pass over the points.
****
Mrs Uomo reviews her regrets
Mrs Uomo opens the large corner cupboard
and lifts them out piece by piece
delicate as bone china. Some people have
their share portfolios or their savings accounts
but Mrs Uomo has these.
She has ready the anti-dust spray and duster
the silver rub for those little antique-like things
that were made to hold jam and butter.
Her table is laid with newspaper
and Mrs Uomo wears bright yellow gloves.
She knows the edges and curves of every one –
the missed visit, the birthday she forgot
the words unsaid and said and the time
she put salt in Margery Jones’s coffee.
Each week she takes down every piece
and polishes, but it takes such a lot of time
and the corner cupboard is over full.
Mrs Uomo might have to get Bruce-no-job-
too-small Hodgson to put up another.
She longs to toss them all into a large
plastic bag and under the stars and a small moon
scurry down to Oxfam or Save the Children
and leave the bag outside, sneaking away
like a shadow before anyone can rush out
and say we don’t take these in that knowing voice –
just like they did for her electric toaster.
And while she wishes a new regret takes shape
in her hand. So Mrs Uomo polishes it
then puts it up on the shelf.
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