Connaught Place, New Delhi

Three dead bodies under hessiana dog with no arsecarving the marketheading to the Indira Bar Gangs of wild mencarry curved knivesit’d be Ali Baba if this was Persiato kill for wallet & passport In far off places I’d be deadmany times except for my fucking kill youGuinness face and incredible speedover short distances. Tonight at…

Oracle

The plots and headacheswere getting to Nerostill a young man at 30,who took heart from Delphi “Beware the age of seventy-three” plenty of time, plenty of time… He returned to Rome and drank deepof wine, theatre and gameskilled Domitius Corbulo,the commander in the east The delight of young bodiesin the towns of Achaia In Spain,…

The Fox

The blackberries hangfecund and fullbuckyball survivorsof the local council. I spend an afternoonfeasting and liecloud sculptingby a purling creekwhen, out of eye’s cornera red paw dartsinto the bramblesfulfilling a nursery tale. I make my way hometo check on the chooks.

Memory

It’s a child’s jigsawone piece informs the othersscattered over 50 yearsa bit of pond herea section of drawbridgesome skyunder the couchlet the pieces runthrough your fingersstanding at fourlooking at a country cottagefrom the roadthe treesform an arch as thedappled sun carves the shadowsIs it Waterfall Gullyor Deviation Road? More pieces:an old black Wolseleya wicker basketdandelions…

Early orange harvest

Our three trees full of blossom and beesOn the top ladder step I start cryingOur old dog Georgy, leaves life tomorrowCactus hips and shoulders Sea dog, confidant and scroungerWho chased the ageing curmudgeon outReplaced with a laughing ten year oldAnd set my sights on the sweetest fruitOn the highest limb Forever thankful

Where ever you go

You are therewhere you weren’t, who cares? in a history, never exactthe perspective is yours past the fields of wrong and rightyou’re always with you enjoy your faultsthe sun is high for lovers or not we’re singular soulswhere ever you go you are there

Flats and cats

The girls drift around the store cradling wire basketsfilled with soya beans, miso and wakame seaweedthe dim inward gaze of Elizabeth Siddal in Rossetti’s ‘Jenny’in one bedroom flats with their catsthey cook macrobiotic foodsthe beatific look isinner virtue or malnourishment Serious, narcissistic, terrifyingly providentthey brim with latent violencefeeding on honey, grape juice and brown ricebookshelves…

Transition

Between the end and the beginningis emptiness, a middle world of ebb,timeless; life fishtailsno clocks or calendarsa feather glides across a cheekwhere laughter lives before a jokea collection of stories interwovenback upon themselves until, not finallybetween the end and the beginninglie havens of green calmand thena nudge

Dubrovnik

(For Kate) On sea walls juta child’s visionof battlements and towersfrom Polce to Pile Gatesalong cobbled lanesshadows razor cutwonder had deserted meuntil Dubrovnikyour sea walls soundthe depths of my sleepthis kiss of promontorydance the red white checksing Adriatic love songswith you on the wallsof Dubrovnik

The red geraniums

A splash of red geraniumin a fissure at Glenelgeating blackberries and creamdrinking Spanish portin the late 1970s twilightriding a bike around and arounda hills hoist in the rainthere’s those geraniumsagain or sitting in St Peterslistening to the lion’s roar at the zooand the chk, chk, chk, bwwrrrrof the sprinkler as the oldsulphur crested cocky next…