Poems

You must take your heart, that slab of meat,your comb of mind, its goo, its bees,that business with the paladin, your papersdisordered as your thoughts and clothes, you must take the snow that whips aroundthe untied laces of your shoe, the solethat’s come unstitched and slaps the sand, the mwwud, the stepsup to the church above the cliffs, you must take your children, your mother and your dogand your dog who died, and tins of food and bags of seedfor birds who trail your heart’s dumb cavalcadethrough this forest of leafless trees, then birds who go ahead of you like your children once pelted to the end of the roadwhere you shouted for them to stop and wait, the birdsyou do not know the name of, a visitor here, to all of this,whose ways you come to know, and sing.

Day lets go of day; pheasant, partridge, snipe, Retrieved and then released, are bagged and carried home To be upended in the larder to grow ripe Under a hook: flushed flights and plummets will become The well-kept rows and columns remembered by the gamebook. The bills are mostly paid, letters mostly opened. Billiards click and thud; spades beat hearts; pawn takes rook; Scotch splashes at a tumbler; smoke puffs from its pipe; And we go on as if nothing much had happened. When you come to stay, you will be glad to see his room Quite as it was: the labelled cards and butterflies; The cups and medals, nets and jars. One might assume He still was out collecting and any minute might surprise Us all by bursting in with Fidget and some find.

Today I felt a need to change rooms. I’ve felt it several times before but, as things are, my study frowns and the TV numbs me with bad news.                       Ah, here’s a lovely room with bare boards. It’s full of dusks and dawns and the sound of the sea. It’s where a cramped heart walks through walls seeking to share a pasture with gazelles.

They are all young in this photograph, looking so happy to be there for a special occasion, the camera held steady and the light falling on cue. It just had to be recorded. Somebody would have said ‘I’ll get prints made if you give me your addresses, but anyway we must keep in touch.’ So young, with all the time in a world that lies in wait for happiness, then seizes the instant opportunity to freeze it in a frame. One by one they have departed now, though memory still holds them in the tight clutch of an album refusing to let go.

(figure c.

Power seems immutable A never-ending dance Entirely indestructible Each blow the merest glance Yet what was indisputable Now looks much more like chance.

On the Ogmore estuary the Canadian geese clamour as the dusk draws down, the whole brown-blazered congregation rouse from their riverside field, as though now comes the boarding call to take wing. The large honking mass splinters: one lot veer over the dunes, the other team strike straight inland, back up the valley, tracing the river’s silver-mercury as if it’s the royal road. Later, as we sit in the pub above Ogmore Castle, the formation returns, silhouetted in the losing light – a low arrowhead V fly-past – determinedly aimed for the sea, letting go us, the river, October, the blacked-out, turned to night pine trees.

When I dreamt you came back from death with something to say You sat by me, looked down. Sorrow or shame? You needed neither, nor needed to explain. I wanted to share two memoirs, two gifts, Two treasured reminders, one my broken toe Which, when I cut the nail, I lift and wobble. You dropped a bar on the joint when I was six, When iron railings were cut for guns and tanks Leaving their shining stumps to rust and go The colour of our hair. To save the trouble We daren’t show mother. No secret the gold inlay In the front tooth you punched and chipped away A triangle cleverly replaced by P B Ross-Tuppin, Your gift and his because it cost me nothing.

Robert and Guillaume take up their usual seats By the window, which looks out to the square; Old men, they moan about the torrid heat, The patron serves this aged, loyal pair; Past his prime, he gives us a cheery smile, ‘You like breakfast?’ (How does he know we’re Brits?) The cafe’s run down, faded with cracked tiles, He’s alone but his kind, furrowed face fits The decor. More come in from the Third Age, Greet, shake hands, kiss – mechanical habits; The patron eyes the rain, ‘On dit le temps anglais!’ We laugh along, appreciate his friendship. We like this shabby place, the local scene, ‘Ça pisse,’ but we enjoy our burnt tartines.

When Alice had gone down the rabbit hole, We all went to the vigil in the gym. Then in class, we had to say what we were feeling, And made the posters to put up on the wall With all the flowers. I thought how it was to fall  And keep on falling, and stared up at the ceiling And was small. And then I thought of him In his ears and whiskers, and how the soul Of Alice must be somewhere underground, Still missing Dinah dreadfully and crying  Pools of tears. When hometime came, We all went off to Courts to eat jam tarts. Then Queenie’s brother taught us to play Hearts. He looked just like the Knave!  After the game, I saw Alice through the looking-glass. She was trying To get through. I did not make a sound.