This and That
posted 28th February 2025
honesty is its own reward
at the cherry tree
where the blossoms turn
red on time
no ground is hollow
and the air conforms
to a parent wind
as it lulls leaves
inspires shoots
brings on
shameless blushes
swim with sharks and you'll cut your teeth
on the matter of being lonely
here:
(an inventory)
to show the trinkets that aligned
smaller than the human eye
the way one was caught, while it
perched, nervously
sought cloud cover and got instead
my box
as a keepsake place
another bumped into two others
a discussion had - a quick exchange led to a change of address
bypass phone numbers
some converted, some broke in
"trinkets welcome"
there is the idea of a vista -
where you add, the therapist says,
instead of remove
broaden, like a panorama, I say
she says: I like that word!
and that way the good eventually
shifts out the bad
so I add
so I always have added
in thinking - so in trinkets
not even seeking -
things washed up, things fresh bled
things gone dull,
before or since or as a result
it's hard these days to push closed the door
shapes so competing for the attention of renovation
pieces jar, pieces fit
then on the back of a flock of seagulls
a haul is brought in
from deep earth and far shore
in a net of smoke carried
to my door
known over there,
apparently -
the reputation of this small island girl
who places garlands, like a Hawaiian, around the necks of
pirates
leaves them unsworded
then goes to bed alone -
no shape in sight, no touch in feel
ing distance
just a day's work
done
for her supper
of the softest bed and bitter herbs
you can be free and not feel it but you cannot feel free and not be it
Because I don’t know how to say enough I miss you, I say this about you
Your thoughts are now beyond my finding out.
What you thought, for instance, when told I’d prepared lamb shank.
You smiled an approval, I heard, but I can never now pry as to why that was good.
Apart from the obvious - because you were always cooking love.
All your life you dished it up.
And I wonder if those who emptied their plates quite understood how you,
to the side, composed and not as calm as you appeared, denied yourself
somehow the indulgence of flavour and spice.
At least, to the degree where it was sufficient to satisfy.
the heart is a net with no holes
Scrawny, with cow’s eyes
Would not be the right description
But they were the words that seemed to hit
And so became the shorthand
This tantrum of talent and her hidden motivation
Too charitable to do charity with
- and that a part of the tragedy
So the cow eyes got duller
And then the mouth matched
- just stopped chewing the cud
Always
Sat by the door, first one to finish, and at least second-to-best scores
Yet no more a well done than a do better
Because, after all, she’s got it together
This wisp
This thing like a bruised reed that
God himself says he will not crush
Seemed haughty in aptness
And cold by defense
And so
No-one
No look in
No help and no warmth
It was written in her book to be brilliant
In a dozen fields at least
It was written she would find love
Well, he’d find her, and - there’d be kids!
She would never have seen that one coming
And it was meant as a surprise to top all
- it was written in
The winter dragged, the spring delayed
It was the push and pull of mood, and despair kept nearing
From in the brain but really, that’s not where it began
It was the gift of the ignorant
- those wise and those foolish -
Taking a skinny girl with sleepy eyes who was genius
To be so much tougher than she was
The first of spring’s daffodils set its head past the soil
(like the child that opens the womb)
On a day still cool
And then there were none
there is catch, and then there is capture
what begins with bait becomes surrender
@Mr Lewis
I met you on Holywood Rd. Just stepped off the 3A & there you stood.
Talking with the accrued authority of 50 yrs from behind the wardrobe.
(you may need to be Belfastian ...)
love is always of a free will
At the Two-Thirds Line
At the two-thirds line,
when looking how the land lies,
sits a run of trees packed dark against
November sky.
Scratch-black, the arms latch keenly
to the one in front
- so on and on, heads down.
These trees are bent west.
If in homage or from the taking of instruction,
no local knows.
But the traveller sees in the weft
of the wood’s protrusion a determined furrow,
burrowed slowly into the face
of this colony of branches,
petrified under burden.
Sea’s gale’s come at this land
again and again, has mastered.
But the observer makes out
in the posture of self-possession:
“Though warped, we are standing.”
November 2019,
The Ring of Hook.
kisses that come in the afternoon are sweeter than all before