Glass in glycerol

 

if that pain could vanish

like glass in glycerol,

a trick of the light,

knots over a broken tide

 

it might leave

 

a long stretch of land

streaming fieldfares

at the blush end of winter;

 

the empty mauve of bare birch

printed with ink owl

on an agate landscape;

 

and you

 

a peeled self

surrounded by riven things.

 

 

 

 

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Ruffled night*

 

handcuffed bangles of frost at the wrists

cool the temper of day

 

tallowed scent circles

lacquered by candlelight

 

let it slip over you,

this ruffled night

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a silken form

barbed with stars

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Stormcock

 

The worked stone tilts in unearthly orange sunset;

a stormcock flings hard notes out into the gale,

jewelled sound surfing the wind,

peeling layers from her heart,

pure as a diamond-coated blade.

She wants to run, hard into rain and wind;

pavements beckon, mineral basaltic,

stuttering under the cold grit of weather.

She wants to shapeshift,

change colour and tone with the seasons,

for her body to lift and breathe and float free.

Instead, she turns from the window,

catches herself in the twist of children and baths and bedtime,

while the stormcock pitches diamonds out into the gale,

and glitters the empty streets.

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Trace fossil* 

 

Your stride echoes the long beach. 

I follow, far behind, willing you to hear me,

my screaming whisper, swift-like, 

scribed in summer’s dusk.

but you’ll never turn back 

nor fill in the gaps you left behind. 

 

A season’s span 

measured in footprints and backwash,

air vibrates in winter’s cold, 

a low blue ache writes across my lungs.

These singing crystal scars lie,

their memories flawless, while you never were. 

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Dark star

 

News of your death tunnelled its way through night,

claws curled, waiting for rim of daybreak,

before my heart bit through the worms of words.

 

You had moles strewn across your body,

constellations of dark stars

traced under covers.

 

You’d have hated the service.

It was for your parents, not you.

They are dug in deep

with their transparent God.

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You’d have taken us through tall trees

to sit at the roots,

twist stories into leaf litter,

and settle in some sweet soil cave,

where your soul would set itself free

to slip through soft sculptures of mycelium.

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Persephone’s betrothal

 

dip toe

cooled to the bone

ringed meniscus

 

I step over a complex threshold

from out, to in.

Air feathers,

a splayed brush of condensation

on cave walls.

 

Dark breathes

in          out

in          out

shoe scuff amplifies

ripples, aches.

Far away in, waterfall

tips over black edge.

 

He soothes me;

the deep drop of his voice

settles my mind.

I leave my mother behind

for his lips, his muscled arms,

the slow soak of darkness

drenches the world above.

A black whole of molecules;

ideas touching, melding, reforming,

held inside are sun sparks,

flower stars, bubbled oases.

 

dip ring finger

cooled to the bone

echoed meniscus

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Rise 

 

I take this stretch fold knead repeat stretch 

into my heart where warmth rises, 

and the day sets into an autumn 

of brisk air and crisped edges. 

Turn the clocks 

back to my father in the kitchen, 

morphing flour into magic, 

while I sweep red cherry leaves into heaps 

for the frost queen to kiss, 

and dip my hand into conker pockets 

to twist their smoothness around my knuckles.

I’m called inside to taste a rich simplicity

of hot muffins sealed with butter 

and grandma’s bottled summer jam.

 

I take this stretch fold knead repeat stretch 

open my kitchen to bitter air, 

and call my daughters in from the owls 

to eat fresh bread torn by cold fingers,

and leave the memories to rise. 

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Dook

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Best dive in through slate and seaweed

before friends grab ankles, wrists,

count your years as they swing, and then – brief air –

and slap! into cold,

eyes of salt, mouth of sand brine,

ears filled with swelling laughter.

Surface smiling, regardless of feeling or season.

A bonfire waits with hot drinks and midnight’s steaming kisses.

 

 

Round rimy castle rocks, witch lake lies.

Accused once, bound twice in a cross,

thumb to opposing big toe.

Swung over edge – s  t  r  e  t  c  h  e  d    a  i  r   -

and smack! into sea’s shock, or rock’s knife.

Eyes of salt, mouth a swollen density of brine,

surface, and a bonfire waits with a stake –

sink, and at least you’re bound for Heaven’s gate.

                                            

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In Eternity

 

Carrying slander and envy, 

squirrel chatters and scrabbles up tree spine and down, 

from serpent to birds and back. 

A dragon flick of tail and hiss 

declares displeasure, imminent, 

while furl of feather and curl of beak

coaxes, cajoles, and then, torments.

Yggdrasil flourishes while fury feasts; 

the ash inhales a spike of air from winter’s edge

then blows out sharply 

to skewer the rumours rooting in her midst. 

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Night rose

 

Not a grasshopper, but a moth -

breath-light and slight,

with a woodland’s intricacy 

braided into its wings.

Outstretched in cool dusk 

we pass hours together

pressed on the window pane;

night rose in accompaniment. 

A diffused touch

from feathered antennae 

passes wisdom of winged silences 

and a sharp lesson in forgiveness. 

As moth melds with moon’s crescent, 

the city hill holds 

the roe deer’s rough bark,

and the short circuit snap of fox. 

 

 

A poem inspired by Matt Gilbert’s poem ‘Grasshopper’ from Street Sailing (2023)