1
Smoke
eyes slur
each scintilla
into another another
another
another
(ad infinitum)
a smoke of stars rising
from each horizon
each night a pyre
for what day lost
the story takes shape
in the darkness between
not spaces in the array
but clouds of the dust
from which all is born
each scintilla
into another another
another
another
(ad infinitum)
a smoke of stars rising
from each horizon
each night a pyre
for what day lost
the story takes shape
in the darkness between
not spaces in the array
but clouds of the dust
from which all is born
2
Reed Bunting
Gentleman farmer, or priest of some damp
parish? No. Louche artiste,
plays the ghost at his own feast
on the green stage summer leased.
parish? No. Louche artiste,
plays the ghost at his own feast
on the green stage summer leased.
3
Jökulhaup
And some perfect morning, so clear
your breath is all that clouds the air
while the sun makes music of meltwater,
to take that first step is the worst mistake
you’ll ever make. Upstream, out of sight,
under layered centuries of ash and ice,
is a wound that keeps tearing and healing
until the moment the familiar babble
becomes a babel of forgotten languages.
your breath is all that clouds the air
while the sun makes music of meltwater,
to take that first step is the worst mistake
you’ll ever make. Upstream, out of sight,
under layered centuries of ash and ice,
is a wound that keeps tearing and healing
until the moment the familiar babble
becomes a babel of forgotten languages.
4
Custard Apple
Guanabana. Sweetsop. Chirimoya.
Mostly, it’s the human heart.
That skin (sometimes thick, sometimes thin),
as if moulded by the fingermarks
of everyone who touched it.
When ripe and green, it gives a little
under pressure, is easily broken
into or cut open to a snowscape
studded with hard black seeds
that are pure poison when crushed.
Sometimes, it’s a new, green
many-mountained planet, a world
of fragrant sweetness whose orbit
crosses yours for just long enough.
5
Untitled
We’d climbed so long, we had no idea
how high we were. Found snow still lying
on the low, scrubby peaks. A generous dusting,
and here and there, a deeper drift,
in hollows and hiding places untouched by sun,
but the almond trees were white with blossom,
the mimosa was bright in our minds,
our eyes, a plume of cranes was rising
from the valley floor and would be gone
beyond the mountains by the time we woke.
how high we were. Found snow still lying
on the low, scrubby peaks. A generous dusting,
and here and there, a deeper drift,
in hollows and hiding places untouched by sun,
but the almond trees were white with blossom,
the mimosa was bright in our minds,
our eyes, a plume of cranes was rising
from the valley floor and would be gone
beyond the mountains by the time we woke.
6
A year as new
as any other.
Braced for the body’s
many infidelities
while out there,
at this moment,
the old, familiar images
arrange themselves
to await your entrance.
A deserted street
swept by the careless brush
of the wind, the leaves and twigs
ready to scour out
all trace of your passing.
as any other.
Braced for the body’s
many infidelities
while out there,
at this moment,
the old, familiar images
arrange themselves
to await your entrance.
A deserted street
swept by the careless brush
of the wind, the leaves and twigs
ready to scour out
all trace of your passing.
7
Of the night
I’ll say nothing. Mostly,
it was warm enough,
I’ll say nothing. Mostly,
it was warm enough,
though once I woke
in what passed
for the still hour
and pulled the past
close about me. Stars
rained down from galaxies
close about me. Stars
rained down from galaxies
that hung little more
than an arm’s length away.
Sometimes there was howling,
the hunters, or the hunted,
but always on the far side
of the impatient river.
We were silent until the sun
exploded into the chattering treetops,
scattering flocks of every colour.
exploded into the chattering treetops,
scattering flocks of every colour.
8
Buzzard, Soaring
There are wheatears in the sheep fields,
blackcaps in the shelter belt,
restlessly intent on what
their small gods provide.
blackcaps in the shelter belt,
restlessly intent on what
their small gods provide.
Above, a buzzard describes
the far-flung limits
of its own dominion,
raises broad wings
to its own deity,
spirals into
the far-flung limits
of its own dominion,
raises broad wings
to its own deity,
spirals into
the fire,
becomes
ever more
godlike.
becomes
ever more
godlike.
9
The Summer
It is rushing towards you again
as you stand
congratulating yourself
on your escape from winter.
It is an unknown, unstable
particle that will pass
straight through you.
Only years later, maybe in some
seed-sown August twilight,
you’ll find it has left you
subtly changed. And now you’re
rushing towards it too, an insect
sensing light and heat,
ready to break yourself
upon its deceptive velocity.
as you stand
congratulating yourself
on your escape from winter.
It is an unknown, unstable
particle that will pass
straight through you.
Only years later, maybe in some
seed-sown August twilight,
you’ll find it has left you
subtly changed. And now you’re
rushing towards it too, an insect
sensing light and heat,
ready to break yourself
upon its deceptive velocity.
10
The Pines
Alien, ubiquitous,
they loom at every turn,
make deserts
of the low hillsides.
Yet they trap a stillness
that can't be weighed,
make a rumour of the rain
outside. We've made our bed
on sharper needles, have found
no better place to hide.
11
Wurrgeng.
June to August.
Creeks stop flowing. Floodplains
dry out. Fat magpie geese
fill the shrinking billabongs.
Gurrung.
August to October.
Turtle hunting time. Heat reaches
it's dry season peak. Woodswallows arrive
On the wings of the first thunderheads.
Gunumeleng.
October to December.
The monsoon makes its first overtures.
Streams start to run. Barramundi appear
in the estuaries to breed.
Gudjewg.
December to March.
Humidity is everything. In this
greenhouse heat, new life explodes
out of the spreading arteries.
Banggerreng.
April.
Skies widen as the thunderstorms disappear.
Floodwaters recede. Streams run clear.
Trees are fruiting. Birds raise their young.
Yegge.
May to June.
Cool, drying winds fan the first fires.
Water lilies pave the still wide wetlands.
Consider this the tipping point of the year.
12
define the contours
we didn't know were there.
Water works while we sleep,
makes islands of all of us
while we're not looking.
All life returns to the water
eventually. Where there's smoke,
there's water.
13
Black-throated Diver, Lochindorb
Sky hung heavy on hills
still black with last year's heather.
Sky sprung with the drip-
drip of meadow pipit fright-music.
Sky groans under the weight
of wind-worried cloud.
The water is more shattered window into
an abandoned croft than mirror.
The bird is here somewhere,
is nowhere, then
is a head held high
in the troughs between each swell,
is one sleek, perfected thought,
not there and then there.
14
Petrichor
Eighty-nine days dry
when the very idea
of this taut, grey twilight
plash and hiss
off sun-crisped leaves,
the way the first drops
smoke from baked earth
into the seed-sown air
seemed quite as unlikely
as any god, let alone
his blood
from scarred stones.
15
Azul
Each time, the mind’s migration. Sky-blue
sky. Enough to understand
I live on an island. The distance
at once turquoise, cobalt, cyan. Blue
as eyes exactly açor-blue. Shades
of the hawk, caught a moment on its
amphetamine rush against a sea-blue
sea. Caldeira-blue, hydrangea-blue
and the lights coming on
on ships in the harbour.
A navy-blue, and now the night,
lunar-blue, celeste-blue, shot through
with silver-blue star wounds
that only heal to a horizon
blue with mountains behind heat haze
or slipping in and out of cloud, like
the piecing together of dreams,
like realising there are other
islands, and the inadequacy
of the word for blue. The sky
high and no limit at all.
sky. Enough to understand
I live on an island. The distance
at once turquoise, cobalt, cyan. Blue
as eyes exactly açor-blue. Shades
of the hawk, caught a moment on its
amphetamine rush against a sea-blue
sea. Caldeira-blue, hydrangea-blue
and the lights coming on
on ships in the harbour.
A navy-blue, and now the night,
lunar-blue, celeste-blue, shot through
with silver-blue star wounds
that only heal to a horizon
blue with mountains behind heat haze
or slipping in and out of cloud, like
the piecing together of dreams,
like realising there are other
islands, and the inadequacy
of the word for blue. The sky
high and no limit at all.
16
Not for the first time, you are left
to reflect that optimism isn’t something
that can be got over, like chickenpox
or the loss of a childhood pet,
but a lifelong commitment
to never quite being satisfied, a homesickness
for a land you don’t remember leaving.
to reflect that optimism isn’t something
that can be got over, like chickenpox
or the loss of a childhood pet,
but a lifelong commitment
to never quite being satisfied, a homesickness
for a land you don’t remember leaving.
A small tract of beautiful but rugged hill country,
no doubt, one in which the trains run once a week
at most, and carry only vital supplies such as tea,
the better newspapers and a wide variety of cheeses.
Beyond it is a low range of blue peaks
you plan to get round to climbing.
no doubt, one in which the trains run once a week
at most, and carry only vital supplies such as tea,
the better newspapers and a wide variety of cheeses.
Beyond it is a low range of blue peaks
you plan to get round to climbing.
17
Our train is a clockwork toy
in primary colours
sent stammering
into a sun-bright suburb.
in primary colours
sent stammering
into a sun-bright suburb.
The blazing presentiment
of summer all along
the city road is still
only knotweed and willow-herb.
of summer all along
the city road is still
only knotweed and willow-herb.
This impossible sky
must hide the same stars
we’ve held to blame
so many times.
must hide the same stars
we’ve held to blame
so many times.
18
Down river, maybe a mile
or more, the whole forest is burning.
or more, the whole forest is burning.
A pall of black kites, perhaps
a young eagle or two, spiral around
the leading edge of the flames,
waiting to snatch the small creatures
fleeing in panic. Stories abound
of kites carrying burning brands away
to seed new fires. They gather
then separate with each imperceptible
change in the wind, wing and eye
alive to the heat that holds them there.
a young eagle or two, spiral around
the leading edge of the flames,
waiting to snatch the small creatures
fleeing in panic. Stories abound
of kites carrying burning brands away
to seed new fires. They gather
then separate with each imperceptible
change in the wind, wing and eye
alive to the heat that holds them there.
'Fire and rain – they’re both the same,'
says Chris. 'They both redraw the forest
says Chris. 'They both redraw the forest
faster than the kites can map it.'
19
Newton Field
Nothing heroic. For once, the names
no use at all. Memory evaporated
into thin air, the merely anecdotal
made history.
no use at all. Memory evaporated
into thin air, the merely anecdotal
made history.
History written
by the guilty, and always, the innocent
appropriation of other lives.
by the guilty, and always, the innocent
appropriation of other lives.
The village is not some secret language
of remembrance. Mute witness,
reluctant host, an absence
that sometimes catches at the throat
like mist off the autumn river, smoke
among the spring orchards.
of remembrance. Mute witness,
reluctant host, an absence
that sometimes catches at the throat
like mist off the autumn river, smoke
among the spring orchards.
20
Metamorphoses
These things we knew.
That the dark mud of the mere
swallows the flocks of autumn nightfall.
swallows the flocks of autumn nightfall.
That the rood goose is born
from the barnacle’s shell.
from the barnacle’s shell.
That the hawk’s winter hunger
becomes the cuckoo’s spite in spring.
becomes the cuckoo’s spite in spring.
That the fireflirt’s song of summer kindles
from the embers worn by the robin.
from the embers worn by the robin.
21
Brimstone
First posting from
the summer country
an early draft
caught by the wind
and filed
under buckthorn.
the summer country
an early draft
caught by the wind
and filed
under buckthorn.
22
Quito
city of eternal spring
source of the flowing sky
and its continual reinvention of itself a sequence of clouds
the dawn mist the smog by evening the eternal autumn
of wood-smoke
and light-clusters impossibly high on the cordillera
23
Prayer For Fluency
To untie the tongue, or better,
to tether it to the cortex
that sifts and collects
the substance of love, not the letter.
that sifts and collects
the substance of love, not the letter.
24
They’d imagined that, maybe,
get to a place like this
and the emptiness
would creep inside,
open up a space
where none had been before,
a hole always in need of filling.
They never supposed for a moment
that it might shrink all absence
to the size of one of thousands of stars,
the densest thing in the known universe,
but distant now, more distant
with every turn of the earth on its axis,
and predictable in all its movements.
get to a place like this
and the emptiness
would creep inside,
open up a space
where none had been before,
a hole always in need of filling.
They never supposed for a moment
that it might shrink all absence
to the size of one of thousands of stars,
the densest thing in the known universe,
but distant now, more distant
with every turn of the earth on its axis,
and predictable in all its movements.
25
Starlings unfold the song-maps of their days
over gardens soft with barbecue smoke.
From the gable end, then, a badly-tuned radio,
the squeal and clatter of an old wheelbarrow
out on the allotments. A siren, receding
somewhere on the bypass. A chaffinch’s alarm call
tested for future use, and a cat, crying
to be let into the house. Three ringtones
snatched from unsuspecting teens
watching a lorry reverse behind the all-night
mini-mart, and a backing track of whistles
and bells, for punctuation, or extra urban realism.
The day’s first blackbird, and the last,
both performed as though he meant it.
26
Butterflies
One flew in through the open window
to settle in the middle of O Level German.
to settle in the middle of O Level German.
Our teacher welcomed the sudden arrival
of new vocabulary, had us repeating Tagfalter
for the rest of that lesson, but the translation -
‘day-hinge’ – was a disappointment.
Too mechanical, too literal. Only first thing
this morning, waiting for the words
that will flutter the stomach, the still, shadowed
understorey of my chest, I found one folded
on the kitchen ceiling, markings subdued
on the wings’ undersides. I cupped it outside,
eased it on to the buddleia, watched it warm its colours
in the low sun while the day swung wide open.
of new vocabulary, had us repeating Tagfalter
for the rest of that lesson, but the translation -
‘day-hinge’ – was a disappointment.
Too mechanical, too literal. Only first thing
this morning, waiting for the words
that will flutter the stomach, the still, shadowed
understorey of my chest, I found one folded
on the kitchen ceiling, markings subdued
on the wings’ undersides. I cupped it outside,
eased it on to the buddleia, watched it warm its colours
in the low sun while the day swung wide open.
27
Monument
No elegy in stone
to be smoothed away
by the heedless tides of history.
No statue, or modest grey cross,
crumbling under its own weight,
glimpsed by passers-by.
Fields redrawn
by flood and storm. Names
that amount to the same old story.
28
Libation
A whole history
poured upon
the brown hills
the shrunken river
the crumbling stone
and still
the small gods
are gone
beyond reach.
the shrunken river
the crumbling stone
and still
the small gods
are gone
beyond reach.
29
Wind threads the eye
of the house. From 80 miles
a sea-fret’s in the upstairs
ready to ask remember when
we still believed
bad weather
came out of nowhere.
of the house. From 80 miles
a sea-fret’s in the upstairs
ready to ask remember when
we still believed
bad weather
came out of nowhere.
Outside you could
write your name
in the layer of Sahara dust
on all the cars.
write your name
in the layer of Sahara dust
on all the cars.
30
The dead are clear to us.
It’s the living who ghost past,
crowd the pavements
and brick-paved lanes,
spectres spun of reflection
and speed. It’s the rows
of empty redbrick factories,
the scrapyards and the canal,
the figures killing time
beside the flyover
that this camera captures,
It’s the living who ghost past,
crowd the pavements
and brick-paved lanes,
spectres spun of reflection
and speed. It’s the rows
of empty redbrick factories,
the scrapyards and the canal,
the figures killing time
beside the flyover
that this camera captures,
not the streets streaming
with coloured light,
the gathering storm
with coloured light,
the gathering storm
of shooting stars
burning with their own velocity.
burning with their own velocity.
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