When I am gone from here,
when I have drifted into the ether,
my thoughts will continue.
Long after you've forgotten how to sing,
they will be a song for your eyes.

These are my children
nurtured over breakfasting tables,
coming alive at four a.m.
uneasy in their sleep.

And you will ask:
Is this how she spent her time
behind that pensive gaze?
Was the sky really that naked?

I won't mind if you skip the daisies,
they're not your beau ideal.
I won't mind if you dig deep into their roots,
they are already dead.

Magically you will be lured into me-
Bee for my bell-flower, asking:
Is this how she spent her days,
gazing into the distance?
Planning the future,
silently moving on.

Bedtime, and another weekend closes on his sleeping children.
Creeping out of their room, he's secretly relieved that the heavy door won't quite shut,
feeling certain he'll never get round to fixing it.

He catches his reflection in the upstairs glass,
studies the bristled face, the ringed pools of his sleepless eyes,
his head reeling with details of recent weeks
demanding answers to how it all came to this.

Downstairs, darkness feeds his solitude.
He gropes for the light, gathers up the abandoned socks,
dumps them with the soiled linen, then
slumps at the narrow window to stare at
amber street lights flickering on over a brutal world.

He recalls when he was a boy,
how his strong limbs used to stride over the cracks,
how nothing could hurt him.
Now, in this absurd small war, he keeps stepping on sudden explosions.

Tomorrow, the children will return to their mother's control,
though he knows she will exploit them
like pawns, for the advance of her own success.

Silently he weeps over them,
aware of how impressionable they are – like clay,
not knowing how their future will be moulded.
The only thing of which he is certain,
is the cold, cruel savagery of love.

copyright © Caroline Grace 2013

Through this corroding forest,  
a thin snake winds soundlessly
between stiff marram grass.

Over time, the constant brackish wind sculpts,
drifts / scaling the metal shanks
shackled to their own shape-shifting shadow.

Steadfast in scorched sand, forty or more as one,
tilt towards the ocean,
reflecting conflict between water and earth.

We are not in tune with their deep veined histories
nor elemental transformation.
We do not propound to understand their language.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2012

You humans, who suffer your own judgement, tremble
from the threat of thunder over the earth.
You, who stand in authority over all things,
enslaved by belief, have yet to enter our language.

You are a broken instrument
locked in the key of non-comprehension,
a three-stringed violin,
you cannot play our music.

A song of joy filters through our species.
It glitters beneath your heels,
weaves itself through networks of blanched roots,
rippling like a silent scream.

Come closer! We beckon with our arms to greet,
but as with your ancients, the waves simply slacken and die,
proof that the bond between us dissipated
with your evolution of misguided contempt.

Beyond the sun's final blaze
we will become larger than our stilted shadows,
be the final ***** of acid under your skin.
That bright current between us
will dawn on you too late as we proceed to
undermine the remnants of your eyes,
the organs of your narrow vision.


copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

Is it instinctive or are we given the right or ability
to play our part in this extravagant dining?
We tremble in anticipation in this enchanted forest,
waiting breathlessly for the next amuse bouche.

I don't know why your voice was so near and you were not.
I turned as in a dream to listen,
but your fragmented words scattered in the wind.
Far side of the garden,  I caught  you crush the grieving lilies,
hand raised as if to say goodbye.
Or was it there to shield your eyes against a blinding light,
that took you with the moon behind the hill?

Where did you go that I could not follow?

Loneliness obscures all reason, refuses truth,
that is to say-
when you are lost, nothing is clear.

Transfixed but strangely calm,
I waited for your backward glance,
your promise of return,
an explanation.
Then from the light, you reached to cast a silver thread,
that one redeeming ray of hope that drew me closer to the truth.

copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

Winters here are unpredictable.
There are days when the fire stays in, when I watch the log pile shrink by the hour.
Other days, a weak sun raises the temperature by degrees, as well as the spirits.

Today, there's a chill in the air, so I call my friend to meet at the local bar -
that means I won't have to burn any logs.

She works here in the village, turning pots, then decorates them with the traditional blue designs
for tourists to buy – if she's lucky.

At the bar, she tells me about her new project. She knows exactly what she wants.
Ideas spin in her head like the pots on her wheel.
This time, she says, she's determined.

Her enthusiasm doesn't last for long.
She drifts away, staring into the middle distance, lost in private thoughts.

I study her hands- always tense, never still. Her slim fingers engrained with the red earth that she shapes.
Her wedding ring hangs from a chain around her neck, leaving her hands free from obstructions while she kneads the clay.

In the background, beer glasses crash about and a dog is barking somewhere outside.

Her eyes flick towards the T.V. High on the wall.
Sometimes, when an important match is on, there's football, but more often than not, like today,
there's a violent American film with subtitles in her own language.
She shivers, then comes back to me, pulling her scarf closer around her shoulders.
She tells me she's seen the film before and knows the plot well.
It's the one where the husband gets drunk and tries to **** his wife, but no one will believe her.

She looks tired.
She says she's been up all night trying to fix a faulty thermostat - that the heat of the kiln was too high and broke all her pots. Then the main fuse burned out and that she'd have to get an engineer in to fix it.

After a while, we embrace and part.
Walking home, I think of my friend and how she could never bear the space between her hands and her precious creations.

The air feels chillier now and an icy wind has started to blow.
I expect by the end of the day there'll be snow on the ground.
But there again, it might just rain.

copyright © Caroline Grace 2013

Mid October takes its end of season's leap
into the solitude of post-tourism autumn.
The landscape shows its truer face to celebrate
the reassembly of local solidarity.

Tat and trim tucked into hibernation,
chalkboards erased,
scant takings totaled,
inflatables deflated.
Unsold crafts packed between pages of yesterday's
'Correio de Manha'
Shocked freezers stand open-mouthed
their diet of ice dwindled to a thin trickle.
Sunshades collapse in deep south style,
redundant loungers relax supine.

Kids ***** back to school -
a mule-train of shoe-scrapers packed to the hilt
dawdles through warming scents of
post-salad indulgence,
sweet with the street-aroma of 'feijoada',
garlic, and  aromatic oregano
***-grown in a back plot, littered with
discarded placards and tired bikes.

Past men leaning doors, unsure of new routines,
idle hands and minds with new time to fill
mostly in cold bars for warm camaraderie.
Women pick fitfully at quiet-season's crochet
squatting to gossip under a white wash
slung and pegged, stick-sure
against thin bleached facades.

Under Planes, old comrades congregate
shuffling at a make-shift table,
tired eyes set on cards,
playing for cents under a limited sky
once defined by Salazar.

Car parks thin.
Beneath the russet canopies street-sweepers
scorn a reckless wind, where still sun-crisp leaves
gather in gutters, thirstily anticipating
the first deluge under autumn's gathering clouds.




copyright © Caroline Grace 2011

Through this monumental city
a troubled river runs under an ancient bridge.
It's hardly flowing.
There's just enough depth to reflect
the accumulation of discarded waste -
the sum of man's detritus.

At its edge, a man stretches his legs
over long shadows
cast by a line of Jacarandas.
These are his invisible boundaries.
He believes if he stepped out of their shade
he would sink back into the quicksand of his past.

It was easy for him to give up.
He just slipped through a gap to where
the source of an old torment was quite forgotten.

This is where he spends his day.
On the hour precisely, with a regular bell for measure
absorbed in silent calculations,
counting and recounting the length of his existence-
a short span between life and certain death.

He's too busy to notice a sanctimonious world
taunting from its own
'He's not all there' it whispers,
'he's in a foreign place.'

But it doesn't put him off his stride.
He's miles away on a carpet of heavenly blue
tethered to a dream,
where mocking birds fly over his head,
and his dog, streets ahead, barks urgently
waiting for him to catch up.


copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

I work hard to keep you alive,
wrapped in delicate feathers of angel wings.
It's a sacred passion of mine.

For you it's not enough
you always want more.
Grain by grain I am dissolving like a headache cure.

Rue the day when soft wings lift
to find a heart so underwhelmed,
my words engraved on it
in past tense.

copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

..... bodies of leaping salmon,
eyes blinking like soft kittens.

I wade ankle-deep in water
searching for her glassy eyes,

plunge my wrists into the flow
groping for her drowned dress.

I know if I could reassemble her face,
push back those eyes to stare,

stare out at me again, clothe her
with that special dress

sewn with delicate seeds of honesty,
she would become whole

and the tiger-fish believe she's human.




copyright © Caroline Grace 2012

In his room he grasps the threadbare coverlet,
The thinness of his fingers exaggerated by knotted joints
not unlike the slubs of coarse cotton in his clutches.

No sun shines in this windowless cell.
Night offers no stars to count.
No luminous clock keeps time.

Unrested, his head in strange surroundings lifts to look.
"This is not my bed.
These are not my possessions.
The glass does not reflect my image."

The lamplight's glare offends his eyes.
The blue beaker has a sharp edge.

This unfamiliar room has seen a single week of usage
meant for new beginnings to find his feet.
Yesterday, his leaden slippers stopped shuffling.

A slam!
Someone is talking too loud.

No-one can hear him silently screaming
as he passes through the closed door.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2011

We walk the smoke-thick winter street of sweet 'n' sour aromas
amongst a throng of oriental shaded faces (such gentle souls)
who crowd  little pushcarts selling scallion pancakes.
Overhead, red talismanic paper lanterns bob, enticing us
to the tap of percussive chopsticks.

We sit in awe; snack on duck-tongue; roast pigs hang
glistening; fat-fresh, ready to fry.
Waiters wheel trolleys piled high with steaming shrimp noodles
past tables of golden oranges and watermelon seeds.
Our Chinese chef prepares shredded pork in garlic sauce.

He smiles and says:
"More guests means more happiness."

Today is the first day of Spring,
a significant moment when we shift into
a different rhythm of sleep and wakefulness.
When the dark turns back on itself
like thick rind peeled from a fruit
to reveal its golden glow.

That warm feeling returns,
not just superficially - much deeper.
Time has chance to saunter - people do too.
They find a moment to talk with each other-
too hot to rush off to wherever it is they're going.

**

Queueing in the supermarket requires patience.
People casually chat at the checkout
exchanging snippets of gossip as though
they've not spoken to a soul all winter.

Patiently I wait in line at the rapid-serve
with my punnet of strawberries,
their tempting fragrance filling my nostrils.

For a moment I am elsewhere-
in a sunlit field, hovering over row on row
of undulating furrows, where shy fruit
hides under spread leaves-
the ones that got away you might say.

Abruptly, my distant view's obscured
by an unfamiliar voice:

You are English-yes?

I had been studying his back,
muffled in a woolly facade of Tweed.
For him, it was still Winter.

Ah - An English rose - yes!

He tells me how I resemble his wife
and how she adored strawberries.

(simultaneously he waves over his shoulder
to somewhere in the past)

He says he will never forget her,
that once you stop remembering,
eighty years of life becomes meaningless.

A warmness spreads between us
like the weight of a cello concerto.
A kind of sad happiness.

Later in the day, under the almond tree,
I **** on season's first fruit.
My tongue curls around a mouthful of
forgotten language.
I am not disappointed.
It is impossible to believe how good it tastes-
like life sometimes,
when strangers offer a few kind words,
filling the days with sweetness-
the Summer coming.

You said you'd come to tea
so I made a cake
chocolate sweet; maraschino filled;
girdled with a satin blue ribbon;
set out the prettiest plates;
hand painted with forget-me-nots.
And from the darkest corner of a drawer
found a single candle to celebrate the day.
I'd understand if you had 'phoned,
but now the chocolate lends a bitter taste
and even the despairing posies have given up all hope
as the candle's flame flickers my ever waiting shadow.

I awoke by the sea to a fearful crashing,
the ground juddering under me.
In the distance, ribbons of laughter-
the shape of human life.
I had not forgotten.

From an immense past,
a thread of light drew me back.
This was my dream-plan.
This is what I asked for.

I lift my head to look.
It wavers on its weak stalk.
Without command, my arm-stumps
jut out at odd angles,
as if about to take me with them
somewhere.....too soon.
They have a mind of their own.

Uplifted, I am blessed
with a peaceful crown of blue
from which a sweet-salt tang
sharpens a wild desire...

I want the air,
I want to push back the hampering twigs,
to hang on thermals in an unlimited sky
where I can chase my bird-shadow
over the hardened earth.

But I must wait for the sky to offer itself,
wait for the light to whisper-
It's time. Time to begin again,
to take a wiser flight.
To be free
as a bird.

UNCHARISMATICALLY, he frowned his displeasure.
On his hunting ground, the rough-coated trooper lunged
into a human intruder.
Predation was a constant chore where extracting food
could be hard work in a competitive and heavily armed environment.
Feeling lucky he grinned, grinding his fused toothplates,
then grabbed and pulverized the passing meal, aware that
overgrazing could destroy his future.

“What kind of life is this?”
Pradesh offers his hands in supplication.
“We should warn them there's nothing here.
My family sold land for the journey.”

Here in a back street
eager to disclose his inner space
Pradesh drags clear a square of chipboard
distressed corners shedding altered wood.

He breast-strokes through a gap
kicked into crumbled brick,
swims in against a thankless tide,

Imagines he's safe here in this place
veiled with yellowing plastic,
the stench of decayed waste crawling  brittle walls.

“Others venture here too – in their thousands.”

“We are the Nameless Treaders of Earth.
We share the same contiguous roots,
the same seed, the same flowering.
We share the same goal – survival,
even the unscrupulous....
even you my friend.

Mindful of dissolving into prickly cynicism
he slumps onto his lath-thin mattress,
draws up his knees foetus-style....

and slips into half-sleep, submerged in dreams
of a home to which he can never return.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2012

Love's the song of the Oriole,
sleek as silk ribbons
pulled from summer's dress.

Trees sigh, relaxed in a warm wind,
gently flexing each golden note.

Love's a bird in flight.
When your heart takes wing,
prepare to be astounded.

On the day his temper boiled,
she'd counted fourteen jars,
pleased with her achievement.
Then Vesuvius erupted
like the pan of orange jam.

He slammed out and left her
with fourteen jars made just
for him  by the woman whose
saddened heart sank to the bottom
of each bitter ***.


copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

Yesterday your letter came.

Risen early,  unable to sleep,
watching the morning,
your roses,
the blown blossom catching in drifts.
Through misted eyes
I read your final sentiments
expressed in such a vital hand –
‘sealed with a loving kiss’

I knew they were mistaken,
(those stiff military men,
all talk and tact)
pushed aside their lies,
would not believe.

Then you came to me,
talked of fire on the horizon,
the desolation of no mans land,
showed me the indelible stain
where your heart once raced.
All confusion dissolved,
undeniable proof.

In time you will thin to a
frail thread of half-formed light,
weaving bright patterns
through distorted days.
I will learn to live,
that peace will come,
cherish your immortal words
sealed with a loving kiss.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2012

She saves swatches of fabric
pinked with special shears;
orders them in co-ordinated heaps
to keep her life fuss-free.
The finished quilt bubbles in her head.
She imagines it telling her bedtime stories
or lines of poetry to help her sleep -
"Better than sheep" she thinks.
She cuts card; stitches with rough tacking;
fantasizes downy feathers floating
between her patchwork story and
backing of silk slipping against skin,
then secures with neat tiny stitches
and strong coloured thread, to ensure
that her dream won't fall apart at the seams.

Trapped in the definition of his interior,
he had become an invisible thing.

In moods deeper than dark ebony
repetitive folding and unfolding of nefarious reasons
pushed him to step outside his restricted vision.

Lost perhaps?
Or provisionally eclipsed?

A luminous slash hinged his door,
the cicatrice between brooding paralysis and explicit dreams.

............

Here on the ledge,
teetering on the cusp of obscurity and mountains blinding peak,
his sight catches a net
streaming from an open window-
billowing freedom.

A metalic thread glitters through him,
its coppery tang branching across clenched fibres
igniting his fingers, his tongue.

A mute cloud disperses.
He stands in the presence of a revelation.

Through the smoke of his eyes
he steps off the threshold
plunging into burnished sun,
his head incandescent with foreign scents.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2012

Someone's flung a fist of golden showers
hillside of the brook;
scattered snowflakes – dotted them
inbetween the overpowering sage's scent
and violet heathery hues.
Overnight, Someone's unseen eye's
designed a palette from
' The Book of Unknown Colours.'
Someone came upon this place and had
an instant rush of love.

These rooms are empty now.
No movement of cool air
between one door opening as another closes
over a fine layer of dust on the polished floor.
No untamed billow of transparent fabric
to snag on the time-worn chair.
Just silvered specks dancing in slanted beams
through a curtainless window -
and so much space!

It comes after heavy rains.
Naked amphibious marauder
crouched beneath dampened stars
bip-bipping its personal intercom;
soporific in sleep-weary bleary-eyed dreams.

I imagine a Cop on his elbows
zig-zagging, belly-flat
under cover of darkness;
he not naked; peaked cap askew,
shoulder pips glinting in half moon;
he too,  predator on a mission -
Echo - Charlie - Zebra.

The freezer kicks in
out-droning night sounds.
Light eases between blinds.
I slurp chocolate dregs from a crazed mug.
Over and out.

Her present universe reflects an insurmountable challenge.
See how she struggles, climbing then sliding back on her alpine *****.
Climbing then sliding,
climbing, sliding.
How relentless her microscopic brain.
How miraculous such a diminutive creature evokes our human emotions.
Poor hopeless thing. She is the center of my attention.
She can count on all eight of her fuzzy legs that a sherpa rescue is at hand.

I toss in a towel.

Aware of oppressor, not saviour, she contorts her body,
covers her eyes with her legs. Screws herself into a dried raisin.
A class act if ever I saw one!

When the sound of thunder ceases to rattle the bath
she cautiously unfurls, stretches her joints,
then scurries over the snowy fibres.

Only then does a frisson of fear creep across my flesh.






copyright © Caroline Grace 2011

In the beginning there were no words
for there was no call for words,
neither was there knowledge,
for there was nothing to know.
All was sublime wordless ignorance,
everything simply - was.

It was at this time, the time of everything,
that Utopia reigned.
All things raised themselves up to the sky
from the rich fertile soil,
from the clear waters,
and from beneath the weight of great boulders.
All things in harmony reaching towards
the brightness of a Utopian sky.

And it came to pass, that beasts
came to dwell in that land.
And the beasts became Man and
Man became the beast.
It was a great time of change.

And Man spewed forth words from his mouth
saying:
"Blessed is this land, for it hath many resources.
I will make claim to it and bring it to order."
And with these words came Knowledge.

Henceforth,
all that raised itself was cut down,
the fertile land defiled,
the clear waters made corrupt.
Great boulders were rent asunder in order to build
marble palaces and statues ornamented with
gold and silver, paying homage to Man.

Time passed,
and there came upon that land a great famine.
The fertile land became barren.
Fishes floated in the pestilent waters.
There was no more reaching towards the sky.
In Man's greed Utopia had been dethroned.
Chaos reigned in its place.
All became worthless.

And Man wrestled uneasily with his conscience
knowing he had lost Utopia forever.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2011

Winters can be tedious.
Sun dips into early dusk.
A dead fire refuses to ignite.

There's a quick repetition
of opening and closing blinds
over a barred window.

In need of reflection
I search a familiar face
in an unfamiliar landscape.

I have her in my grasp,
half illusion, half real,
a symbolic mask denies
her true face,

her glittering crown
divides us by its radiance.

Groping in darkness,
I stumble over objects
of wood and stone,
my unsteady tread tripping
over their contours.

I light a candle.

Bathed in amber light,
our shadows merge.

A new door opens,
stretching the perspective.
No formal borders here,
they wouldn't survive
the present climate.

In their place,
intricately carved
figureheads and totems-
a vision of the past.

My eye is a camera,
retinas branded with imagery
for the photographer's delight-
coloured pebbles, carved wooden animals,
tin cans, bones.....

....A Glass Sentinel
(though she isn't visible)
I can see right through her-
a vision of smokescreens
and subterfuge.

Past stumps of driftwood,
past the uncut grass,
a few flowers...

...to the fabricated backdrop
of a burning house, black smoke
rising
in
a
thin
stream.

At the open door -
The Guardian,
(I know her inside out)
unmoved,
(she didn't bat an eye)
defiant in a new skin,
a softer version-
The Mother protecting her children,
arms splayed, prepared
for fight or flight.

A russet flame
Licking her spine exhales
'Get out of my way!'
but she wasn't listening.

Smile fixed,
eyes of a phoenix,
a lion,
a raptor,
protector.
We all need feeding,
but not this way!

Throw me a cloth,
a napkin,
a man-size tissue
a lifeline!

She wanted this,
no, wished it-
this symbolism,
this burning of ironic portraits,
to clear the deck,
make way for new.

It shook the house,
its fate sealed behind closed doors.

I compose myself,
pull her back from the perilous edge,
gather her in my arms.

Fragments of shattered words
flutter in the ether.

What is real?
What is fiction?
A carbon copy of thousands?
A charred corner?

A forgotten candle?






WARNING:
'Eating fire' is a risky business
but can attract a large audience.

For many seasons I awaited your return,
restless on the shore of a great sea,
hair blown wild by brackish winds,
my tapestry unwoven.
For many moons I searched the distant line
where Neptune's hand slices through the sky
beyond the eye's perception.

How frenzied my hands became,
sifting for mythical remains
of boat, of flesh, of washed bones.
From carved crib to wrecked vessel,
your realm was all but stolen,

Then lifted from night's shadow,
on a zephyr's breath, you came
to heal the fever of my sorrow,
my heart grown heavy with longing.

I recall that fateful day, how I wept
while you unfolded wondrous tales
as we lay in half-shade beneath our tree of life.
Between its leaves shines love -
the eternal light,
burning in the heart of Ithaca.


copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

My neighbour is on her balcony shaking out blankets.
It's nearing Easter and her family is coming to visit.
She stands motionless for a moment to watch the blossom being snatched by sudden gusts, then settling as a skittering of ivory snow.

It's always blustery at this time of year,
that's Nature's way of getting rid of rotten fruit.

She drapes the blankets over the balustrade, then secures them with wooden clothes pegs.
That's when I wave to her.

Usually, the cleaner comes in, but today she wants to do it herself,
to prove that she still can. It's a small thing that makes her happy.

She says there's not enough time left to be bored. So twice a week, she drives into town
to meet for coffee with other people like herself.
Her car is very reliable. She remembers her husband telling her to get things checked
before there was a chance of developing anything faulty.
He died last year, but life has to go on – for her own sake.

In this country, when a partner passes away, the one that's left behind wears black -
that's why she wears her pink dress -
just to let them know she has a mind of her own.

She loves her life here, but misses her grandchildren growing up -
that's why they come.

Last year, one of the boys told her she'd shrunk! But it was he who'd shot up like a flowering
pea, putting out tendrils to test an adult world.

When solitude becomes too much for her, she comes round.
“You could die in your sleep here,” she tells me
“and no one would find you for weeks. When they eventually did, they'd carry you off in a pretense of black to a place where everyone's forgotten.”

That's why today, she's shaking off her blankets.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2013

Between the cool-quarried kitchen
and paint-faded south facing door
runs a windowless wall
sugar-papered with childhood dreams.

Memories of roughly folded gifts
squirreled in satchels,
crossed creases still intact;
curled corners fixed with shiny pins.

Luminescent paint heartens the darkness of a pitch grotto
anticipating a flicked switch
to illuminate dimmed histories
of abstract symbols, visionless figures and countless fingers.

The small pink fists that captured
Time's most precious pieces,
now live with vaguely painted hope
of sheering unsteady walls
in their uncertain world.

We are in the middle of a recession. It'***** us all in some way or another.
It's happened in the past - history repeating itself.
The elderly have seen it all before. They remember the queues for food,
where everyone got their fair share, when it was gone, they had to make do.

My friend has been laid off from work, and the cottage she rents is to be sold
by the landlord. He's feeling the pinch too, so has no choice.
It's a small place with two rooms, but, she tells me, at least she has a roof over her head –
for now.

As we sit together under the bare trees, she pours it all out. Her future looks gloomy,
like the sky – cumulus building. That's when the rain starts.
My friend's mascara begins to run in inky streaks. She wipes her cheeks with a kleenex
as best she can, before we hurry to shelter in a nearby cafe.

We are the only people in there. As we wait, the owner tells us he's closing down
at the end of the week, that customer numbers have dwindled and those who do come,
sit with an expresso for hours on end, watching the T.V. -
that way, they're saving on fuel.

We take our coffees over to the window. The rain has eased off a little,
so we sit watching the puddles reflect an oppressive sky.

My friend explains how she may have to leave the area to look for work,
like so many have already done.
I tell her she can stay with me until she finds another place, that this is where she belongs,
where we can all help one another however difficult things might get.

Our voices chime around the empty cafe echoing the sentiments of so many people.

Stepping into the street, we are met by the dazzle of wet cobbles.
Grass verges sparkle with fresh rain, and a tangerine tree, dripping with fruit
droops over a solid iron gate, its bobbing lanterns shining with the colour of sun.

copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

We are stubborn oak, weathered by time;
the sea in our roots;
indelibly etched with histories;
generations of shriveled feet entrenched in shifting sand;
ankles manacled by smug doctrine-
a vanity of wigs;
a conceit of hollow gestures;
a chaos of language
caught at the throat by immortal diamonds.

…...

Behind the darkened mirror
sits shadows of lost children cowardly nailed;
confined to straddle a pen of brittle palings.
They sway both ways (from side to side)
singing lullabies to a faceless doll:

“Sleep my little one, sleep...”

Never to sleep.
We are destined to eternal night,
weeping for escape from discordant ghosts
wreathed with barbs,
sharp reminders of The Hidden One.

…...

Are you prepared for a reading?

I see fattened thieves squeal
to redolent notes of Victory that is 'The Hymn of Life'.
Puppets,  no longer orchestrated, become their own Masters,
no longer believers of illusions.
Then stepping through window's shattered glass,
discover the New Child
illuminated by an astonished look,
dancing in the gushing fountain of Delight.

Only then will the beginning become the end.

This year, Spring has been stopped in its tracks.
Incessant rain has driven life underground,
so as a diversion, we're putting on a play.

It's not the real world, rather a representation of it.

The director is a control freak, so her role is perfect-
she can dictate without having to act.

Rehearsals take place in the Philharmonic Hall where the local
band used to practice. But the young have all gone to the city
looking for work, so the drum kit in the corner stays shrouded
in a black cloth and the unplayed snooker table supports our props.

On the stage, the backdrop is dominated by a church.
Its steeple points to God only knows where, aiming to instill pure thoughts.
Impossible to believe, its true aim is to inject fear into its people-
depending on your point of view.

The main player likes to be different. He turns up.
A vain attempt to give some structure to his life.
Late as usual, he's unshaven, and drowsy with wine.
No one can decide whether he's in character or himself.

Waiting for our cue, we stand on the narrow balcony,
flicking damp cigarettes into the river of rain below.

Eventually, we all change, put on our monstrous armour,
become the same curious creatures following the same script.  

Except one....

who refuses to change, deciding in his own mind where he will play his part.
So he pulls on his proofed coat and heads out for the bar.

Outside, the power is off.

The streets are silent. Even the cafes have closed earlier than usual,
tables and chairs left out in the rain chained together, like prisoners
crying for release.

He slips along the cobbled streets, chanting his lines in time with his own footsteps:
'There are more dead people than living....the living are getting rarer.'
Even he's not sure if he's quite himself or still in character.

Briefly, the clouds part to reveal the cold light of the moon,
the only thing in which he has absolute faith to guide him on his way.


copyright © Caroline Grace 2013

After the first felt tremor
warning it was time to go,
in your calm way
you took me out into
the penetrating night air
to watch,
as I,
naturally unprepared,
stood dressing.

Harvested-
a basket
of ruby jewels!

Here I stand in the kitchen,
a chilled mother with warm thoughts,
easing tissue-thin skins
from slithers of moist flesh.

Birdsong.
Peaceful solitude.
Time unrolls its red carpet.

Considerably reduced,
I slip a few scarlet streaks
into a bone-white bowl.
A familiar voice calls me to the garden.
"Tea dear!"
but I hunger for something stronger.

A rush of love
flies like an arrow
to pierce silence

At an angle of ninety degrees,
two trees share the same plot.
This one grazes the eaves,
seeking vain attention in the window glass.

The other, its grey ghost lazes
prostrate on the herb garden, reveling
in secrets of lemon balsm and thyme.

At night, the first becomes demonic,
obliterates the universe,
branches scraping the pane, scratching
like fingernails on slate,
its coppery leaves trying to get in.

Its partner slinks to earth,
seeking solace,
wringing conterminous roots till sunrise.

I've had my fill of these unrested moments
fighting the pillow, not settling.
There is no joy in seeking stolen stars.

My dilemma grows horns.

I half dream of ******,
at least amputation.

But even the dimmest light shines in the dark -
I consider its tormented destiny.

At daybreak, like a ****** I scale its gnarled branches
ridiculously one-handed,
the other a keen-toothed weapon.

I am an agile goat shinning upwards
feeding on dreams of peace.

Lost in the sky, I become sap,
melt into its arms,
(a vertiginous release)
I become a curved branch.

(There's someone standing in my elbow!)

Leaves helix down, settling on autumn crocus.
“Look!  Gold on gold!"

The grey ghost yawns, grows its shadow,
waves its arms demanding justice.

I wave back.

Suddenly terrified, I secrete an invisible scent.
The branches contract, tense as ligaments.

My heart plummets, rolls out recumbent,
presses heavily on the earth
listening to fleshy roots recede.

A few deft cuts......

Sun gutters through bereft spaces,
striking the window.
Both trees a shade lighter, a lighter shade.

Tonight I will dream under visible stars,
feel the moon's half-light slide over me.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2012

When day closes on late shadows
and small hilltop houses stand as flat silhouettes,
their blinking eyes squinting towards the valley floor
badged with late-grazing grey sheep,
my father stands at ease, hands burrowed in soil-grained dusty pockets,
chin tilted towards moist fields of churned clay,
their blackened furrows converging at a distant curve.

Soon the slim fingers of cypress will softly stroke a rising moon
and at my father's back, the porch light will shed its warm glow
onto the rough path and the stone well,
where an ancient rusting bucket idly hangs
by a tangled chain.
And in the gathering darkness, the clouds will part
to reveal a void in the Heavens.
And he will gaze as always in awe
held in a transient spell counting, like blessings,
the burgeoning stars
as he wrestles with reason, the frailty of life.

And enchanted he will enter the spartan house
to briefly reflect his certain future,
leaving the smothered hills in still air
to share peace with themselves.
And from their safe earth and dense thickets,
small creatures will emerge
to face their own fate without question.

This one here's me aged three
at a trestle table for little ones,
snapped with a box Brownie
at the Miss Rosebud parade.

Fresh as a daisy in crepe paper petals
under an eternal sun.
There's my brother dressed as a magpie...
just out of shot.

I remember that dress.
Yards of love sewn into a snowdrift
of crisp petals tumbling into my lap
under the Singer where I sat shuffling

impatiently to the machine's rhythmic rattle,
mesmerized by my mother's puffed-up feet
on the treadle,
my brother's whining cry...
just out of shot.


copyright © Caroline Grace 2011