It could be almost anything; the crackling layers of pastry
greasing up your paper bags, the smell of that air before the rains
which drenched those early, angry kisses.
A way of reading Freud, the endless, hanging scent of dye,
the tapestry maybe worth a fortune
hammered to the white backside
of your kitchen wall.
It could just as well be footsteps mutely humming
on some concrete stairs outside, the fizz of tramlines,
Miles Davis, the sound of distant dogs, that child;
I’ll spend my remaining days out hunting
for ways to take me back, and
for ways to leave again.
I have been invited to read some poems from the collection I am working on at the Bristol Festival of Nature 2014, 14th and 15th of June.
Parenthood was the night terror
that spoiled those times I didn’t come home.
A prospective grimy window, left unshattered,
between myself and many others. More than
once I held that vigil – forty days and awful nights
willing a drop of blood to flow, as if
I’d thrust myself into a dull lunar ritual
pre-dating even the oldest stains
on this bed we watch unseen hands and
malformed feet, we dream up names
nicked from old books. An exhalation, a fragile limb
writhes daily, there, beneath your skin.