On rough, rough seas and whitewashed waves
my stomach heaves
the edges rocking on and on:
our vessel tips from side to side
no taste nor energy
How near am I to leaving, docking
one last time?

Is that decay my fingertips can feel?
The creeping dark
the dreadful sound
of ants on deck
and beetles in the cabin floor
the shutting of the cabin door
on memories long cast aside
but knocking on the wall
old truths and lies
shape-changing as I fall

And more: the hills ashore are steeper now:
a woman walking backwards passes me
hands me goalkeepers’ gloves, shutting out light
just when I need to score

I keep my phone line clear
but no-one calls
I reach and reach again

The empty beach erodes
I stand on cliffs
or fall into the sea
Just you, just me

It was three weeks before the end of the world:
even the leaves were making for the exit 
and that Mennonite magic hovered 
among the hostas 

I knew you’d come:
the coyotes were calling
and the stones looked fragile

Pain is temporary, they say – 
until it isn’t:
I felt your fingers on my breast

While the politicians waited outside
making mistake after mistake
worshipping death

Not realising the implications
of the scars on their elbows, 
diving in like clowns

Why should I worry?
I knew you’d come

I knew you’d come
shining like gold in the darkness,
across the park and into the ice

I scan the crowd
the heat of its passing,
the trigonometry of its structure
and the sense of destiny in its eyes

Bits of it break away
and speak to me
Hello, mate!
Everything OK?
Lovely day

Somewhere deep in there
are slices of anger
fingers of fear
but I do not see them

I sit in the heat of the sun 
and no-one wears a mask
no-one carries a gun
or looks too sharp,
too close

The crowd goes in and out of shops
heads for another street
finds the cathedral on its phone
looks for somewhere to eat

When the sun goes down
it splits into groups
with rough edges
finds somewhere else to play
makes irregular shapes in its head

Sometimes it gets hurt:
sometimes it dies,
but not here, not now
not from where
I’m sitting

The winding road
from Christmas Eve to New Year’s Day
is hard to follow – 
unnecessary humps, 
diversions,
hold-ups,
unexpected lights –
and intersections all awry

That normal weekly neatness cast aside
and signposts scribbled over
then abandoned: 
distractions everywhere
and black holes, potholes too

We lose our way,
go Tuesday, Friday
Monday, any day
then somehow Sunday
leaps out from a crossroads hedge
beyond the mist
and we cling on
though absently

Somewhere just out of sight
beyond our waning grip, they say,
order remains

but something happened here:
something passed by
something that changed
the pattern of the sky

Angels have got into churches
all over the county:
climbing the ancient walls
they beam brightly and carry hammers

They look down on our flimsy worship
as if nonplussed,
somehow restraining themselves

and we look back
holding our strange grey books
singing uneven songs
safeguarding the saints
in odd ways

We do not reach up, 
they do not reach down:
it is an impasse

Angels should live in trees

Wondering about her dreams,
I sit in a stiff wooden chair 
and wait for the curtain to come down

She breathes steadily
but without much conviction
her mouth wide open, ready to call

I say her name, but softly:
I want to speak to her but not to wrench her away
from wherever she is
from whatever peace she is finding

I walk up and down while
she lies still, beneath pale green,
eyes closed, blank screen

She does not catch sight
of the flowers I brought or the card:
she waits for the night

I remember her smile,
her laughter, 
her Robert Mitchum husband,
the distance between us 

Nurses come in with love:
everyone cares, but no-one 
can change anything
except her clothes

I have to go,
she has to stay

Those silent dreams:
another day

Until recently
I reached for the sky
now I make tracks
into the wilderness

The sky is tempting
up and down
but the wilderness
has no other side
no other side

Looking for Narnia 
you stand outside the wardrobe
in gloves and blankets

but there is nothing to see;
the door is shut 
and the cupboard is filled
with things you may need some time, 
blocking the way through

Gazing into the distance
you try to see snow and light
or a messenger from the north:
maybe a lion
or an eagle
or a witch

Some other country
would suit you, as long
as its magic 
was only 
in your head

and the door 
stayed 
closed

(a poem written ten years ago, about a different part of the world)

Looking for dry ground,
he quarters the fields
but the flood plain here
could swallow an army
and suck birds from the sky

His unnatural boat
crawls from lane to lane
obeying speed limits
colliding with the unknown

something moving under water

It is too late for retreat:
strategies have gone down
and do not resurface:
a new landscape is being formed –
grey islands taking shape

There are rumours of different tides
retrenchment
new offensives
brave new worlds
cures for drowning

Looking for dry ground
he searches the old maps
the front lines

the ways home, seeking
the infinitesimal edge

I see you there
south of Iceland:
the sky is clear 

Red and orange beyond the horizon
eat up the earth, but you
are above it all

heading home
out of the snow:
beauty, not the beast

And here we are, above it all too,
flying toward heaven
not seeing the abyss below:
flames licking at the grass…

Feeling like grass, 
I watch the wind increase, 
and something that seems like the sun 
creeps along my body

as if it is not sure where to go
among the hills and hollows