…by which I mean I never wrote them up until now (apart from ‘Menhir’, and ‘People’s Library’).
This morning the tide is breathing
gently with a throaty croodling,
when only last night I saw the wind
lash it into ribbons and roars.
The trades union movement is gathered
onto three shelves in The People’s Library –
one room in a building so old
all the stairs lean to the left.
I have my back to ‘the big church’
but it offers no consolation for the blood
parching rapidly from my fingertips.
A comfortless chafing as I circle the bus stop
Like some tethered, sacrificial goat!
I’m scared my death will arrive
Before the X35.
invisible but for their delicate white scuts,
fallow deer pick a dancing path up
through the sad lank January ramsoms
and the rain-sodden alder boles
She’s a menhir on the platform, unmoved
by the banshee shrieking of wheel on rail.
Her daughter leans her good-dog weight,
little thumb-pot eye-sockets filling
with the ground sound caterwaul.
All our faces clenches, temple to teeth,
foreheads gripped between our eyebrows
folded paper fans in the clutch of claws.
Then the tunnel smooths and soothes
the demonic harmonics, so I unwinch –
But her frown remains, hung in midair
on an invisible nail driven halfway
from here to some otherwhere.
Killer kraken clouds ententacle our small vessel,
Slap suckers on the portholes and drag us down to the duvet depths,
Where we stay, hatches battened, happily.