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,
All it takes is an Alice moment ducking my head to go down the passage into house number seven and my huswif’s eye takes over approves the stone dresser (not much dusting), the handy storage cells, the fit and bulk of the front door’s slab, the mattress of bracken, the sheepskin rugs. And outside a
They do not walk the world, our fragile dead: They do not stalk our streets or pace our floors; They do not stand behind unopened doors, Rehearsing all the words that went unsaid. They cannot walk our world as we would walk: They cannot choose to see a much-missed place, They cannot choose to see
The statues have been getting wetter and wetter. Always standing (they have no beds), they darken In the downpour. Even if we scrape the moss and lichen From their features as it comes, they won’t get better, But will grow more nimbus-like until the day It is impossible to be quite sure Who everybody is.
He was from the north and always right. Bet you come from some market town in Surrey, he muttered darkly over our first year Poor Law essays. I was dangerously short on street cred. Gift-wrapping hardbacks in a mock-Tudor bookshop deep in the privet-lands of suburbia, I ruminated tactics, just as Lenin must have
(i.m. Marie Colvin, 1956-2012) All autumn, the chafe and jar of nuclear war — Robert Lowell, ‘Fall 1961’ My father, who’d had ‘about as much as he could take’ by ’44, and still woke swearing at flies and soaked in sweat, read the Telegraph in dread and disbelief over his
Our honeymoon weaved from Hampton Court to the pavement labyrinth of Chartres, then on to the high hedged puzzle of the Villa Pisani, where he delighted in my wrong-footed confusion. All the while his notebook overflowing with looped alleys, abrupt dead ends, sly, coiling traps. Back home I soon came to feel the practice of
From The Years (Arc Publications, £8) I can still see them all, as if they’d just gathered in red and grey for morning roll call and fifty-five long years had never passed. Walwyn who says little and spends his spare time winding wire round gaudy plumes to hook imaginary fish. Barnes from Tripoli