Sunday, 4 December 2016

ANOTHER GARDEN DREAM

**




The garden takes possession
of a dainty trotting fox.

We watch each other for hours
and hours, the frost and I.

My list-making scratches
like brambles;

I predict the breath
of pigeons in early morning light.

I want to tell you how moss
is a consonant,

how bees turn to gold
if you bury them

in metal foil.  
I will not tell anyone but you:

how the garden is a crumpled sheet of paper
scratched with a blunt pencil

and midday sun
is a far-off question.


Saturday, 3 December 2016

BEST PAINTINGS

***




The best paintings are solid and dark as doorways.
The best paintings vaguely hang at the end of corridors.
The best paintings have aching teeth of flowers.
The best paintings make tremendous lies.
The best paintings listen in.
The best paintings dance when no one is watching.
The best paintings lend spare parts to history.
The best paintings are strangers to themselves.
The best paintings make a nonsense of rectangles.
The best paintings are light within light.
The best paintings are stripped to their grubby socks.
The best paintings gather and pucker and fray.
The best paintings forget normal procedures.
The best paintings return to their fourteenth century selves.
The best paintings are brimming with tears.
The best paintings have a thousand signatures.
The best paintings lie about their age.
The best paintings are not really paintings.
The best paintings are hopeless.

Friday, 2 December 2016

LOW

**



LOW

The garden lay low, made into waves,
grasses splayed by invisible creatures.
If the woman walked barefoot she might fall -
find a hole of light, her shape becoming blade,
leaf, petal. It was the day of making songs
in the burning quiet. In the mix of pigeon and aircraft:
a slow trampoline. Last summer she had pushed pegs
with string into the earth, at right-angles, making conversation
with flint and clay. Now she searched out the square root
of the place, found a bird's skull
between her toes. Maybe all her plotting had been elsewhere,
a different garden of distant photographs.
What she saw now was her white stretched arm
covered with bamboo leaves, a flickering smile.
Her arm sinking into shadow,
pulling at a child-shaped day.