in the bowl of a sand hillock
a rabbit skull sat in the centre
like an offering to a coastal god
shrugging off the hubris
I bagged the head and carried on
NO COLD STAR THEATRE TONIGHT
Rain for four days; small eternities pass
the clock is waterlogged. Restless,
my walks take me through lands of brine and shit.
Colour is leeched from marsh, greyblack; greyblack
sea lavender's purple; watercolours in mud.
Everything with sense waits in the thicket
Gulls push out / blown back
Gulls push out / blown back
What moves in this greyblack vision?
Scores of rain, undulating waves
Thought forms of wet gods
the clock is waterlogged. Restless,
my walks take me through lands of brine and shit.
Colour is leeched from marsh, greyblack; greyblack
sea lavender's purple; watercolours in mud.
Everything with sense waits in the thicket
Gulls push out / blown back
Gulls push out / blown back
What moves in this greyblack vision?
Scores of rain, undulating waves
Thought forms of wet gods
A STONE'S THROW
The blue eye of flint / socketed in the red earth
stares through the rain / stares at the sun.
His patience is without end
stares through the rain / stares at the sun.
His patience is without end
RED WOOD
In Sandringham, the two mile stroll through the woodland was expected to be a little mundane - as with all royal occasions. But entering the woods from a different route, the whole map tilts and shifts - there are still the ubiquitous rhododendrons (that I'm told grandmother once took cuttings from; burgling for her own garden), but now, propping up the entryway - gigantic sequoias — redwoods that split into two heavy beams half way up. The bark is what I think about most, like fox fur it is red and soft to the touch.
The smell of pines and swollen earth is a musk in its headiness. Wet burning as the breeze passes through. There are patches of flushed verdancy, is this the sea lavender in the dunes close by?
Further into the older woodland, where the fireworks of lichen and moss have thoroughly invaded the local trees. Xanthoria with its bright orange bursts over the patches of bark, frosty ramalina covering the crusty old birch with its tendrils of verdigris. It's worth slowing the pace to feel the heat and coolness of the colours.
In the lower valleys, the roots of an upturned beech hang precariously over a hilltop. Part of me wonders whether I should stay and watch it drop over the edge but it'd certainly take some patience; the roots still wind into the earth; it's still living! The limbs of the roots are strange, like babies arms. I walk on with a shiver. I would of expected old woodland to have more noise. There are moments of pure silence, even though we are now just after dawn. Before the four days of rain, bird song permeated the air along the Brancaster coastline: pipes of the sandpiper and the fat football fan black-headed gull screaming its name over and over again. Here, nothing nada nix. It's deafening. Have the four days drowned out all that lives on the air?
The pines are sprouting in the background here but it is the birches that really take my fancy. Here they are old, royally old. It is as if they become greedy for light and this hubris has caused them to burst from their skins.
The smell of pines and swollen earth is a musk in its headiness. Wet burning as the breeze passes through. There are patches of flushed verdancy, is this the sea lavender in the dunes close by?
Further into the older woodland, where the fireworks of lichen and moss have thoroughly invaded the local trees. Xanthoria with its bright orange bursts over the patches of bark, frosty ramalina covering the crusty old birch with its tendrils of verdigris. It's worth slowing the pace to feel the heat and coolness of the colours.
In the lower valleys, the roots of an upturned beech hang precariously over a hilltop. Part of me wonders whether I should stay and watch it drop over the edge but it'd certainly take some patience; the roots still wind into the earth; it's still living! The limbs of the roots are strange, like babies arms. I walk on with a shiver. I would of expected old woodland to have more noise. There are moments of pure silence, even though we are now just after dawn. Before the four days of rain, bird song permeated the air along the Brancaster coastline: pipes of the sandpiper and the fat football fan black-headed gull screaming its name over and over again. Here, nothing nada nix. It's deafening. Have the four days drowned out all that lives on the air?
The pines are sprouting in the background here but it is the birches that really take my fancy. Here they are old, royally old. It is as if they become greedy for light and this hubris has caused them to burst from their skins.
HOLKHAM
In the woodland the Scots pine creak overhead
thin hairs bristling in the onshore breeze, off out to sea.
A red kite hovers above the treeline, the ends of the wing
like billhooks, fan tail like the backend of plate mail
The smaller pines have thick green spines;
fingers offering out their pine nuts.
The wood is so brittle, crunching underfoot
Every so often, a wood pigeon alights, moronically
flapping as it finds itself trapped in the canopy
NIGHTWALK
Horizon light glints in the water
swallows race to bed / clouds cave overhead
the canopy of beech / knots and roofs
'Haw-Haw' is fox cub / we've come to close
screech owl lits and ropes her circle
slowly, looping slowly, down tighter,
tighter, like a trap
you notice
only too late
swallows race to bed / clouds cave overhead
the canopy of beech / knots and roofs
'Haw-Haw' is fox cub / we've come to close
screech owl lits and ropes her circle
slowly, looping slowly, down tighter,
tighter, like a trap
you notice
only too late
THE RED MATERIAL
On the balcony
The lit sky like a girl
Clad in mother’s makeup
Biding time till her leaving
The perfume too, pervading
Over the bricked up garden
The wet cloying smell
Of sweat and honeysuckle
Redder now -
The buzzing of cheap radios
Play as men rub themselves
Against their ochre cars
Waxing attention, waning
In the barking yards
On the paint flaking porches
Mothers suck the tears
From their young
Bandage the blood
Send them back out
Onto the Game of the Road
Two of them, green-faced
From the light on the leaves
Climb into an oak’s bower.
From a thick branch’s peak
The black rook looks down
The lit sky like a girl
Clad in mother’s makeup
Biding time till her leaving
The perfume too, pervading
Over the bricked up garden
The wet cloying smell
Of sweat and honeysuckle
Redder now -
The buzzing of cheap radios
Play as men rub themselves
Against their ochre cars
Waxing attention, waning
In the barking yards
On the paint flaking porches
Mothers suck the tears
From their young
Bandage the blood
Send them back out
Onto the Game of the Road
Two of them, green-faced
From the light on the leaves
Climb into an oak’s bower.
From a thick branch’s peak
The black rook looks down
MIST FRUIT
Born of bird shite,
your nest is crowned
high in the old oak.
Wintering yellow,
a cannibal with no
taste for light.
Sapping lifeblood
with kisses, you swell
pregnant with mist fruit
catching
the eye
of a curious magpie
That flies your arrow,
planting the tip into
an apple tree,
you take a bite
green your limbs
with heads of white
your nest is crowned
high in the old oak.
Wintering yellow,
a cannibal with no
taste for light.
Sapping lifeblood
with kisses, you swell
pregnant with mist fruit
catching
the eye
of a curious magpie
That flies your arrow,
planting the tip into
an apple tree,
you take a bite
green your limbs
with heads of white
NIGHT MARSHES
To set the scene. The night
wind is rushing wisps
across the winter road.
A mile away a farm
blinks an oily eye
a who shudders
through the marsh
then a sharp, barked
rejoinder.
Somewhere out
in the rutted dark
a fox is chewing
through the neck
of the moon
wind is rushing wisps
across the winter road.
A mile away a farm
blinks an oily eye
a who shudders
through the marsh
then a sharp, barked
rejoinder.
Somewhere out
in the rutted dark
a fox is chewing
through the neck
of the moon
A FILM OF DUST
The days are now spent
the seed has gone to waste
at my ear: dry sucking sounds
the flowers brown no
these truly the days of rot
At night, a horrible
weak green light.
Dank, heavy cloud
keeps the dust low
in the back
Of the throat
Nothing moves
no wind
to carry the seed
a film of dust
coats the land
this is how
my days are spent
AUTUMN NIGHT
In the churchyard
rafters of darkness slot over us
we are carved into the beams
black figures on burnt wood
An automata of blackbirds
return to the clocktower
wind down and rest
as the fox’s shadow
slinks into existence
Our backs on grave-earth,
stone a pillow, we watch
how night shovels its shade
over the city, moon; moon
Glowing wheel, rolling on
over tree and tower
laying down the darkness
we are buried under too
rafters of darkness slot over us
we are carved into the beams
black figures on burnt wood
An automata of blackbirds
return to the clocktower
wind down and rest
as the fox’s shadow
slinks into existence
Our backs on grave-earth,
stone a pillow, we watch
how night shovels its shade
over the city, moon; moon
Glowing wheel, rolling on
over tree and tower
laying down the darkness
we are buried under too
SUMMER NIGHT
Night comes on slow
a blanket drawn over
the singing thicket,
reeling off the day, the warbler
gets a last word and hush.
Wind whispers in the rushes
The city behind
is most happily
ablaze
The soft talk of boatmen
stowed in long-rooms
on lamplit windows
silhouettes draw together
until dark soaks the page.
Water babbles on the hull
We crunch on
a path glowing
in moonlight
A train unzips along a ridge,
slows as it weaves through
wirey hawthorn, blackens,
on the short journey
into the red blast.
Out from under
a rag of cloud
the first star winks
a blanket drawn over
the singing thicket,
reeling off the day, the warbler
gets a last word and hush.
Wind whispers in the rushes
The city behind
is most happily
ablaze
The soft talk of boatmen
stowed in long-rooms
on lamplit windows
silhouettes draw together
until dark soaks the page.
Water babbles on the hull
We crunch on
a path glowing
in moonlight
A train unzips along a ridge,
slows as it weaves through
wirey hawthorn, blackens,
on the short journey
into the red blast.
Out from under
a rag of cloud
the first star winks
SPRING NIGHT
Listen, we are not ready for bed
hear the bristling in the trees?
crows flat refusal: nah nah, nah.
finches unstitch the sky
Light leaks from the trees
onto a streetlamps’ hot glass
all is bottled in amber
a hard stillness: whiskey
In this undying light
we are marshmen
a Lindow folk - shades
with only the whites
of our eyes on show
Waiting for dawn
exhumation
hear the bristling in the trees?
crows flat refusal: nah nah, nah.
finches unstitch the sky
Light leaks from the trees
onto a streetlamps’ hot glass
all is bottled in amber
a hard stillness: whiskey
In this undying light
we are marshmen
a Lindow folk - shades
with only the whites
of our eyes on show
Waiting for dawn
exhumation
WINTER NIGHT
You wake in the night
to hear it all hum
your body shivers,
a wisp of draft
loops around a toe
pulls you out, right out
Wind on the window,
cough from a car.
From the carton of stars
light pours
through the dark
into sunken eyes
A bed lamp switches
the outside world
for the bright inside
you jump
out of your skin
at the sawn-off torso
drawn across the pane
Wind on the window
the night trembles
like a glassware shop
in a small earthquake
with the weight
holding everything
to hear it all hum
your body shivers,
a wisp of draft
loops around a toe
pulls you out, right out
Wind on the window,
cough from a car.
From the carton of stars
light pours
through the dark
into sunken eyes
A bed lamp switches
the outside world
for the bright inside
you jump
out of your skin
at the sawn-off torso
drawn across the pane
Wind on the window
the night trembles
like a glassware shop
in a small earthquake
with the weight
holding everything
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