Through the Cracks of Winter

we camped in the Black Mountains
and you thought you saw a wolf. I was a stain
in the shadow of a great cliff of sturdy construction
with a hinged lid. The shoe-box of Hiroshima,
can we forget that flash? How did God shine
the light in the passing space, not minding
as lemmings dived? She had Her own intentions.

I let night over my head like cling film
on a frozen turkey, smoothing the bitter lines.
Then you looked up and described a dream,
the sun scrambled on New Year’s Day. Your words
consumed another, one for every minute.
At midnight you stood beneath the pines singing
Jerusalem. I broke free and soared
in the middle of it all, crazy laughing
as the reservoir rotted red as sunset. I was the one
who once loved you, with your yes, yes, yes until
the world shouted no, do not drive or use machines.

You were the watchman of my panopticon.
I was a clock ticking.

 

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O.M.G.

God is the fizz/pop of a failing light bulb.
God is Wagner’s Götterdämmerung.
God is a red warning sign on a sharp bend.
God is a shoe salesman in a designer shop.
God is one segment of a chocolate orange
or an ice cube in a shaken not stirred.
God is an invisible splinter in the sole of your foot.

God is a pyramid in your heart.
God is a pair of curtains that don’t meet in the middle.
God is a lost pair of scissors in the back of a drawer
or a set of cookie cutters in fancy shapes.
God is the teaspoon of honey in your hot toddy.
God is the knot in your umbilical cord,
the stinking pus of a wound that never heals.

God is a dandelion clock on a windy day
and the scent of wet earth in a forest.
God is butter melting on toasted crumpet
or an onion on the chopping board.
God is a sandwich cut into tiny squares.
God is the steady drip of a leaking tap.
God is a white feather on your path.

God is a daub of yellow paint on blank canvas.
God is a game of truth or dare.
God is a broken windscreen in the fast lane
or a hit and run on a dark street.
God is the dogs of Chernobyl looking for a home
and snow drifting in the Carpathian Mountains.
God is a gardener who prunes hard every winter.

 

 

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Web

She never learned the 60% rule,
hungry swarms disappearing.

Small insects under her skin,
no place for strangers.

Cracking pistachios late October,
a bumble of dogs bark at the fish truck.

She was arrested for public indecency,
a memory, bare arsed in a sacred place.

Time was up. At the border
she never heard church bells.

The day stripped naked, intersecting
her space with signs.

The sun more pink now. She swatted
it flat and bloody with her hand.

 

 

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Plot and Bash

Tackle it when thrust through the window.
Look difficult when leaving the control area,
keeping right. Drive gentle up the road.
There may be more than you.
It will contain the time and distance you.
Get to the first junction as somebody else
and set off again. Beware of blindly following.
He may know where he is going or he may not.
Keep trying to make the fit and keep an eye on.
You may end up lost off route, being baffled
on route! Alternative. Pull up, obstruct and try
the hand better than clutter. With practise
you will plot the move keeping at least two.
If you are baffled it may be your opinion
-miracles do happen and he may see. Do it
or provide the clue. As a last resort guess.
Don’t stumble on a code. Use a magnifier.
Don’t discard handouts, keep them safe.
Engineer the maps in alphabetical
to easily locate you in the night.

 

Note:- Plot and Bash is a navigation technique used within British Road Rallies during the 1980s.

 

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