In the wild land
between Ben Avon and Gairnshiel
between black snow and white wind
there is a passing place
where spirit brushes flesh
clouds shift shapes
and brown is the colour
of my true love’s eyes
In the heather, footprints can just be seen
reaching upwards, almost hidden:
the road like a juggler
throws, then catches
nine times out of ten,
and I keep passing.
This is the place:
enchantment is a wound
that reopens.
I pass again.
The precise shape of the star
and the way it moved,
backwards and forwards,
does not concern the wise,
who love
unexplained light
Private browsing –
examining conjunctions,
comets and dwarfs –
tempts the unwary
into disintegrating time
and again
A baby can throw the best-laid plans
into disarray,
reaching for empty hands,
hoping for gold
Out on a limb,
like desperate travellers looking for somewhere to stay
like lonely shepherds in the dark
like a young girl suddenly with child
like wise men laughed at, following a wild idea
we are lost in a shapeless world
waiting for something to happen
out of step with time
unaware of the resting place
and the angels
trying to see through the pain
something in the shape of a star
until at the perfect moment, just off the beat,
the sound of singing
or a knock on the door,
a safe delivery:
as if we had found something lost
like a coin or a sheep
or someone sleeping in a field:
someone who, on closer inspection,
appears to be us
Here in the centre is the River Jordan,
boundary between past and future,
war and peace:
deep enough
and there, in the same picture,
the Dead Sea,
white like a sepulchre
If you look closely you can make out
a path going down
from Jerusalem to Jericho
and a Samaritan
off to one side
There are churches in Bethany,
old and new, like caves
for resurrection
Through the mists of time
the walls of a monastery
and St John, gazing upwards
seeing something
outside the landscape
away from the dusty Judean desert
away from Bethlehem,
away from the blinding light
away from the voice
that bursts out of the picture
and at the same time into it
The dove is hard to see
but the baptism remains,
undeceiving the eye
Look, I have found some pieces of wood:
now we can build a fort
or a temple
and make soldiers out of mud:
you and your soldiers
can try to destroy me, and I
can try to destroy you
That sounds like fun:
some of your soldiers can hide
in these strange holes in the hill
They are empty now, but look
as if they had something in them:
I wonder what it was
There is a large hole down here
that looks as if it might get in the way:
I will block it up with a big stone
Help me with the stone:
it will not stay where I put it:
it keeps rolling away
That is awkward:
it might make playing more difficult,
but I suppose we can pretend it is not there
Here are some more pieces of wood:
they have something on them, though –
something sticky
I will throw them away:
maybe we could go and play
somewhere else
The train from Barcelona has arrived:
if you look through the window, you can see its sleek
but obvious outlines
It stands there openly
We will be leaving soon:
we will be on our way, and later
after the scenery flies by,
we will arrive
and the weather will be different
They are building more flats by the railway,
and the buffet car has run out of milk:
it is not like English trains
It is a high-speed train, and it
moves quickly
What seems to be happening
is surely happening
and will probably happen again
If it does, we will tell you
In the tunnels it is dark:
outside, the sun casts shadows
And if something else is happening
that we cannot see
we do not speak about it
even if it seizes us by the throat
and shakes us till we scream
Is joy or terror passing by?
Is there an eagle in the mist
or a serpent in the falling rain?
No-one knows
Now we are nearly at Narbonne,
and most of us are asleep
It is normal:
it is what happens
A bluebell has flowered on my parents’ grave
cradled by a caressing sun
and guarded by squirrels
Now I know that you are still alive
I can rest easy:
even the naked torsos and shiny beer cans
of oblivious passers-by
no longer provoke dead anger in me
and the apparent absence of God
does not deceive me
Hidden beneath these shadowy rows of tottering tombstones
is pure gold
the essence of something unseen
in ordinary air
righteousness dancing
in the warmth of a friendly universe,
vital signs,
raw and unmistakeable
ready to break out
and expose the facade,
destroy the conspiracy,
make everything clear
In these soft, grey, collapsing January days
where dawn and dusk meet on main street at noon
too weak, too low to draw their weapons
and life seeps away
like air from a pricked balloon,
the fire fails:
faint flames lick the edges
of lime logs, traces of orange
in the colluding coals
There was a blaze here once,
not quite a furnace –
no iron forged, no tons of nails for tall
adventuring ships –
but enough to warm a visitor or two
You held out your hands sometimes and felt
some subtle change in temperature
Now I close one eye as I write:
mist spills uneasily out of my dreams,
dancing through my bones,
piercing or tickling my spirit
interrupting the invisible sun
while a cold wind across the cemetery
digs deeper
keeping the fire going
or putting it out
Failing Fire won the 2010 Norwich Writers’ Circle Open Poetry competition and appeared in the anthology with three other of my poems (and 66 by other people). It is available at www.norwichwriters.org.uk/poetry/anthology.htm