Something sits in the hills
just beyond reach
like an imaginary number
rooted but unreal
the key to it all

It lives in the cloud that changes
moment by moment
slipping from world to world
unravelling eternity

You can shut doors in your mind
but nothing is closed
in this patchwork land:
revelation comes and goes

And just when you feel safe
as years turn
secrets are revealed:
light burns through
shining on unexpected scars

Distance shifts: roads may
or may not be open:
tracks play tricks
and can lead anywhere –
death or life in the singing streams

Nowhere to hide:
covers are ripped away
heaven is torn open and
doves descend in the stillness

Sometimes other birds

This poem was written seven years ago – in Yorkshire, as the title suggests.

That’s how it was,
a few trees scattered carelessly
but standing proud
as if to say
this was not our idea,
this waste of space
this temporary place:

the abandoned building,
the uneven paths,
the leap in the dark,
sparks of stars through the web of branches.

A few visitors, some hurrying through,
some lingering suspiciously –
some waiting for urban enchantment,
hands in pockets,
looking for loose covers,
paperbacks, a litter of kittens.

And then you, one autumn,
when concrete fell instead of leaves
and the grass was screwed into the soil.

You cast a spell,
signed a contract,
read the small print and suddenly
a kind of order arose,
climbing toward the sky:

scaffold, bricks, mortar
with a view of the cathedral.
And suddenly the rabbit vanished
out of the hat:
no longer there, however hard they looked.

And yet some careful trees survived,
a path headed north, towards God,
and west, towards the setting sun.

Now the trees lean towards
nearby roofs.
The wind rises.
It is autumn again.

A path raised like a wedge
above high tide
shoots straight as an earthy arrow
outwards:

in the evening sun
you look back at the town,
the remains of the day:

the silent train,
diners on the deck,
cars dragging themselves from the quay,
stragglers in Staithe Street,
stones from victoria plums.

The sea laps at the boardwalk,
and bubbles rise
from shellfish or pebbles.

The wash from incoming boats
feeds comfortably between our toes,
and the coastguards go home:
the sea dead calm.

You balance on the breakwater
then jump off, laughing.

On the way back we stop short
and watch the sun fall
on to Holkham:

a file of trees in the distance
become shadows against the misty light,
standing to attention,
not quite at ease

in the face of such casual power –
so extravagant,
so impossible to resist.

As in a soup, spoon-hot,
I float with noodles –
the yellow tubes hold me up
and I defy gravity,
my organs mystified at the lack of pressure
from above or below

All is calm: I drift,
waiting for God to speak

Like Julian, I look for showings
of what is real – the deal
that defies description

I feel love push me
in different directions, and
my firm convictions sink:
they are too heavy

All right, I am clinging on,
but the bright white flowers
and the sun behind
make me forget all that

Grace is pouring in and out:
its currents propel me gently
from side to side

Sometimes I kick, but
I do not escape

For a while, this
is proof of heaven:
paper bark falls from birch trees
and lies on the grass, unread

As promised, this is the third poem I read at Walpole Old Chapel in Suffolk a couple of weeks ago. The earlier ones can be found by clicking on Poetry.

I caught the sun.
I was browned off
and danced aimlessly through the heavens,
catching planets
and bouncing off stars.

I chased away comets
heading for Earth
and tightened the asteroid belt
a few notches,

then I darted into interstellar space
past the Oort Cloud,
neutralised a few nebulae
and got the sun into proportion.

Now, taking a cool look,
I could see that it was tiny,
smaller than a ping pong ball
and the palm of my hand.
On the minus side,
it was a long way away.

But space is negotiable.
I reached through a black hole,
fought off the worms,
and my fingers closed round a warm white ball.

I juggled with it, like a clown,
until it had cooled enough for me to hold.

It gave me a glow inside
until I noticed the Earth had disappeared
and I had nowhere to go back to.

I had caught the sun.
I closed my eyes
and covered the whole thing up.

It was not me.
I was not there.
The beach was empty.

This is the second poem I read at Walpole Old Chapel. The third, Proof of Heaven, will appear here shortly. The first is available by clicking here.

Nervous thunder in the distance
peels away the silence

A bear has been seen
within walking distance

An invisible fence
keeps the dogs from my door
and I walk in the evening,
dodging mosquitoes

Wildlife circles
and a train approaches, its jazz note
cutting right through
as I should
if I had dominion
instead of a nervous disposition

The world closes in on me
and I adopt a defensive stance,
waiting at the barrier,
looking up the track

Eventually I see a firm, unyielding light
and hold on to it

It hurtles towards me
through me
and disappears:
the noise batters me

When it passes, I stand firm
or, to put it another way,
I do not quite fall over

This is one of the three poems I read in the old chapel.

Eyes on the horizon –
black hills caught before breaking –
he achieves the sensation of floating
while still holding on

Heat rises over Montauroux
and the mass bells call:
he hovers between day and night,
feet on the rough base of the pool,
hands clinging to the edge,
neither praying
nor neglecting to pray

It is a period of transition,
but he cannot pass:
he remains in the pool
while ants march across the sky
almost within reach

Up and beyond the pile of primroses
near the top of the hill
I stand before my grandparents.

They are 16 years apart,
and sinking on one side:
no flowers for them –
they are strangers here.

Just behind and to the right
is home to my loving parents,
nearly 40 years apart.

They lie on the level, beneath a tree,
and I put bluebells in
the appropriate container:
it is my father’s birthday –
he is 102.

The numbers game is compulsive,
and I search out three aunts and an uncle
and many older people I once knew,
but the fact is they are not here:
the ground has closed over them.

They are no more than pictures in my head,
these people who are dead.

They have moved on
and we have moved on too:
they are no longer required.

Barely a tremor marked their passing:
not many people noticed,
and not many will notice
my departure. Blink

and you will miss it.

Somewhere out in the universe
or beyond
my old friends are waiting for me
to be born.

Written recently after a visit to the Rosary Cemetery in Norwich, and read at the Seagull Theatre in Lowestoft.

I just about managed to complete my tanka series for Lent. Here are a few from the final few days.

Palm Sunday

on the approach
to the occupied city
cry hosanna
not knowing how salvation
might be torn from heaven

Monday, March 30

as shouts recede
and the temple empties
a donkey waits,
uneasy stones balanced on
his soft and naked back

Good Friday

in museums
you seek infinity
and play old games,
use knots and pieces of wood
to find a way forward

Saturday, April 4

chasing the past
across empty bridges
and up bare slopes,
you hear words spoken by streams
and tread on broken stones

Easter Sunday

stones roll away
revealing emptiness
inside the hill:
the light leaps and tumbles out
filling receptive hearts

I didn’t want to give up chocolate or alcohol; so instead I decided to write a tanka a day for Lent. Here is a brief selection so far:

crosses of stone
shadow the evening road
as music plays
pilgrims break uneasy ground
going against the flow

high tides threaten
to overcome pale coasts
and sweep inland
while your undefended eyes
see nothing untoward

crocuses burst
on to the hill, claiming
it for spring:
by the cold sun I see you
sheltering in the stones

frost-coated grass
stands like spears until the sky
burns out its blood:
you ask about autumn love,
I reply too quickly