and I’m dead set on a fire: the year’s first. Barely cold, but I want to ball paper, lay kindling, strike a match, smell autumn. The same as a boy: the sleepovers, bike rides, fishing trips – always the next thing, always tomorrow. I’ve got good at this – wielding an
The old upright shopping bicycle has the wrong saddle, a racing one, more like an iron bar than a saddle. I perch on one side or the other, carrier bags swinging from the handlebars full of provisions for the weekend. It’s hard work pedalling uphill in the rain, but after a while I
won’t be deterred, though her cough clinks and rattles like a bottle delivery. The porch covers her; rain and shine she sits cross-legged on the doorstep, not watching while the street happens, coughing to punctuate life’s sentence. Somebody should tell her the fifties are over, that no one’s going to photograph her
When I get there, my friend is fast asleep with nail clippings scattered on his knee in the dayroom’s baffled light. I wake him gently. ‘I don’t know where I am.’ ‘You’ve been asleep.’ Homes Under the Hammer is on the BBC. We manage, once we find his stick, a turn around the block.
Perhaps there is more than one way of loving the world, Miss Agar. Perhaps you are right. I am booting lonely stones on Perranporth Beach as I struggle with this letter late this morning by the hunting sea. I apologise again for that silliness with the shark. My memory has fixed a photograph of
How many nights now and my desire is a bronze hare — as heavy in me and as light — molten creature cast on the point of flight, elements holding their form for two thousand years and more — although the patina is changing, reflections change under different lights. Every day this spring, walking in
Can you hear me singing? I have a high, clear voice like that of Percy Sledge. I’m a soul singer from somewhere like Macon, Georgia. I perform mostly country soul numbers in the Music Shoals style – Percy’s ‘Out of Left Field’, ‘You’ve Got My Mind Messed Up’ by James Carr. I’m not
Her tree still sheds its leaves, their fall makes grief and grieving tangible, and where a cast-iron drainpipe sleeves rainwater poured from rotted eaves an old grief, making water sing, dies in the broken guttering, and where her dormer window mists she ghostwrites with her fingertips or doodles breath as scrims of rain bring gusts
Here they once tended the camellias; Now all the camellias are deceased, Choked by the fresh flora that flourishes In this broken purposed infirmary For tender flowers consumed by the years. The red, remembered as a period piece, The white, no longer abed, still waiting For the nurseryman’s nurturing hand. Now never beheld through the
won’t budge. Tired of her name, tired of travel and the southern blue, she sinks into the patch of land she’s found, and spreads her windsurf wings only to feel the sun. She won’t meet her mate of thirty years again – so much water under the bridge. She’ll die here, and nothing and no
From reception they followed stringboards upstairs to the photocopying room, through accounts, into the main offices. Miles of white cables overpowering skirting boards, pinned around door frames. And where they came up short, taped to woodchipped walls or burrowed beneath fitted carpets – those ripples never went back quite the same. Superhighways of
The streets are closed with hazard tape, wrecked by big oil and snaky traffic jams. The road crew works by geosat to trace the burnt-out cable where a blackout starts. Last week, the spigots flooded, storm drains blocked and now a drop in gigawatts clears the street and turns the dragon-headed streetlights out. Crew men
Dismounting lightly as a thoughtful child, The tiny king looked younger than his years, And older than eternity. He smiled, But Van Dyck noticed a faint sheen of tears In his unguarded gaze. Then, with a sigh, Charles asked: ‘How long until you’re done, d’you say?’ ‘It will depend, Your Highness, on the eye,’ The
Red Swingball bats and the Disney eye of an inflatable dolphin pressed against the hatch of the Renault 16 in front. Lorries ahead, cabs to trailers to cabs; faces at coach windows, all lanes blocked. I slump in the back seat. We edge forwards. I twiddle with the window winder. Nearer the bridge.
Everyone around me doggedly refuses to understand that I have never been able to live in the reality of things and people … Debussy – letter 8 July 1910, the piece L’Embarquement pour ailleurs still incomplete I have joined the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society, fee 1 shilling. No
From a photograph of Himmler taken by an unknown German soldier in Ukraine, summer 1941 In a meadow heavy with the scent of everything that blooms without anticipation of death, two Ukrainian peasant girls encounter the Reichsführer SS. Freed from their labours they smile and greet the slight bespectacled man who appears benign, as he
Let’s take a knife and our differences down to the hazel wood. Two strokes each converts to four stakes in the ground. Let’s run these round with rope to make a ring, then step in. Let’s box. Or let’s kneel before a sacred court. Either way we’ll agree that justice should
Late winter elbows past in wind and rain while teenage waiters bearing lemonade and shandy take away my mother’s pecked-at Yorkshire pudding. Back behind the bar Michael Jackson blames it on the boogie in the beer-and-whiskey half-dark as we escort her to the car, one at each elbow, each sparrow elbow, as if making
take this moment beside the rapids, where sunlight clips the old weir wall, knowing itself to be only a faint replica of sunlight, not the sort found in other places, like Pisa or Nairobi, but without undue dismay at its shortcomings and invisibly corpsing, here and there, as only the old style comics knew how,
The art is on the floor so technically my feet are art. Watch your — says the curator, too late. I’m rearranging atoms, I’m making something move here, can’t you see? More verve, more discombobulation – more lifelike, don’t you think? The curator doesn’t think. I disentangle. She announces a round of applause for Tim,