On a wet and windy Whit Sunday
(shameless in shades of grey)
I watch iridescent pictures on whitewashed walls
and wait for the Holy Spirit

I examine gallery-goers closely
for signs of fire on their heads
and speaking in tongues: yes,
there is strange language here
and colour too: people from every part

but not much action, nothing 
that could be mistaken for signs of drunkenness
despite the tired boxes of transformed water 
under the table

I leave space in my heart
in case the Holy Spirit comes,
but outside the unrepentant rain
is building a lake in the car park
and not for baptism

Some ducks arrive and claim ownership:
a tent is pitched in the tarmac
and children bring spades

A crowd gathers, and a passing television crew
records the monochrome event:

Inside the Holy Spirit comes unnoticed,
mistaken for a draught
from a half-open door

As I blink
pictures catch fire
just for a moment
so easy to miss

[written 15 years ago after an exhibition in a disused Norwich factory]

Up here on the heights
Apaches gather
among the bushes
their lines well learnt, 
the music bold
war songs

Cold dogs
abandoned bicycles 
watchers from outside
taking the long view
wait for some kind of movement
or act, or scene:
something dramatic

A lean boy, no feathers,
no arrows, 
scrambles up
a scalped tree
not even glancing at the wild cathedral –
a monument in the dead valley –
and the heat deepens, 
sucks the afternoon in

How to begin?
Smoke may rise
curtains may fall
but the whole story is never told
and prayer is confused
with laughter

The stranger
with a lightning fast left hand
pauses for a moment 
lights a cigar
and smiles

[Poem read at Walpole Old Chapel annual reading by Suffolk Poetry Society members]

In midsummer the binmen come early:
I hear the sound of shelling down the street
or at the edge of town –
the thunder, then a dragging sound
like bodies, dead weight –
as I lie with empty head in bed: 

People fall asleep
while my dreams are emptied
mixed with foreign nightmares 
and driven away

I feel relatively clean
under the power of the yellow sun –
the blue, blue sky –
but somewhere all that anger
is being emptied
hidden away, destroyed:

I wait for the fallout
the shouting
something breaking through
the fabric of my existence

Eventually I look outside:
the bins are scattered aimlessly along the naked path
empty of intent: 
I breathe deeply,
never wanting
to do anyone
any harm 

then, later,
hide them 
in the garden

The train was late –
so late it seemed 
there might be no more trains

It caught me unawares…
I was lying down: soon
it did not move – 
I did not move

Dirt from the rails
clogged up my head, filled
all those joyous spaces
where I danced

I crouched by the door
but it did not open:
young girls in bright canoes rushed past 
just out of reach, 
the water boiling

The sleeper shadows lengthened: 
the train, not moving, seemed to slow: 
rails hummed and screeched 
a crack worked its way
down the wall

There was light outside
I could not reach it yet:
there was a pain growing stronger
in my back

and I felt 
strangely tired

snow sits deep 
on the road out of collingwood
proud in the sun

but here there is only wind:
trees and lovers bowing
to the inevitable

the sound of the climate laughing
as mere humans fold
in half under the weight

of opinion 
and the Sahara edges southwards
leaving the party early

do not look up
nothing is coming
and will be here soon

The sound of pianos on the beach,
the fall of rain on the roof
like stones under the ancient waves

Your fingers move like lightning
then slowly, touching me gently:
my skin tingles

One of us is learning the tunes
and how to play them,
taking them all the way
inside

Maybe both of us

So much water on the marsh,
in the river and across the roads:
we lie on strange beds
in the summerhouse

The wine rises to the surface,
the body and the bread:
can it be true?

The wild sea is not far away, but
we head inland on old ridge paths,
listening for the tune again,
that eastern poetry,
that distant voice,
that old, elusive love

snow sits deep 
on the road out of collingwood
proud in the sun

but here there is only wind:
trees and lovers bowing
to the inevitable

the sound of the climate laughing
as mere humans fold
in half under the weight

of opinion 
and the Sahara edges southwards
leaving the party early

do not look up
nothing is coming
and will be here soon

You came into my dream uninvited
unaware
flinging your bedroom window open
leaning out and laughing

this side of the tank traps
the invaded playground
the man with the gun
the man we never saw

We walked together
down the invisible path
to the distant woods
close to the railway track

I knew it was a dream
but you woke something in me
something deep down 

I wanted to open my eyes
but it was impossible:
inside a dream
I knew it was a dream

When I came round
hours later
your bedroom window was empty

It was too late
and too early

Death-wish figures on skis
lurch from side to side
blown like winter leaves
Twentyonesixty, seventwenty, sixthirty

Accidental figures fall 
through the sky
plunge to the edge
gather speed
sixthirty, seventhirty, midnight

Back full double full full
numbers reach for the stars
leap upwards …
Teneighty, fiveforty, fifteenfifty
… fail to come down

High on the pale white cliffs of Étretat
beyond the heavenly bridge
you walk the narrow paths, strung
like ropes from rock to rock:
you perch on the pinnacles, unaware 
of the emptiness beneath you,
reaching for the sky

I take pictures: secretly
I want to be out there, 
on the edge,
mystical, threadbare
in the game

but I cannot help looking down
and out: I see the abyss
I feel the urge to fly
like an angel

and my angelic ambition
prevents me reaching
the thin, high ground where you stand:
keeps me from touching God

You scramble across the gap:
a hawk hovers
pinned to sacred air
above the abyss
sun drifting along his easy wings

written 15 years ago after a visit to the magnificent cliffs of Étretat in France