We’re reeling, thundering, flying.
We’re racing down the hill.
We’re sweeping along the pavement.
I will carry you; I’ll take you where ever you want.

We’re wobbling, swaying, tilting.
We’re blown and knocked; uneasy.
We’re pushing into the wind.
I’ll try to be steady; try my hardest to never let you fall.

We’re bumping, pounding, jolting.
We’re kicking up leaves.
We’re skidding along the track.
I’ll weave between every tree, don’t worry, my love.

We’re gliding, sprinting, whizzing.
We’re brushing by the hedge.
We’re crunching along the stones.
I shall trundle with you, gently down the towpath.

We’re moseying, wandering, meandering.
We’re stopping, choosing some lunch.
We’re pacing through the lanes.  
I’ll wait when you’re gone, wait to take you home.

Static radio click and a skitting bird,
stench of cigarettes and stale beer
salt and vinegar or dry roasted?

The dormant dampness
of barely-used picnic tables.

Flat coke hanging to melted ice,
warmth trapped under cloud.
Phone under thumb -
get together.

Bike chains and combination locks,
empty wallets, Rizzlers, filters,
a key to the house.

Sticky coaster and slimy taps
beads of sweat on the frozen glass.

There’s plenty of flesh on her finger,
sagging, loose, folded ,
crumpled at the knuckle.

The nail is peach, white at the tip
manicured, manufactured; plastic.

She reaches out towards a musty key.
The greyish, flesh-coloured cube
awaits her touch.

She withdraws from her ******,
her finger folds away with the rest.

Reassured, she begins again.
Her fat stub hovering
over the scrabble of letters

With a satisfied click
the key flattens into the board.

There are crackles and scratches woven here;
bridges and highways where little things run.

Over tangles of brambles and berries
a bud’s coming out; a hand lying open in grass.

There is bracken crisping; brown and dry;
shaded by waxy leaves where water ***** roll.

There are bees in the air, flitting around.
Air which is thick with nectar and pollen.

It’s dense in here; cramped thorns twist,
ears are twitching, claws scratch on bark.

When the light goes away eyes start to shine,
the scurrying gets furious, noises in darkness.

An owl glides down and a mouse hurries up
but quicker than light, he’s swept from the ground.

Spiralling up from his hawthorn nest
He’s stolen away; into the night.

Sparrows whistle, a feather snags on a branch
and the moon bows down to the lilac dawn.

The pull is strong,
heavy. The dense weight
of a kite tugging at its string.

The pearl of the moon swung
over the sea. Easily. Here, there. Wherever it might want,
yet the pull is strong.

Held in place, it’s carefully strung
up and cold. I thought of you and wrote
daily; a kite tugging at its string.

Sing.
Be free, shine in the white
pull that is strong.

Sharp as it stung
me, the ache of this wait;
a kite tugging at its string.

On my back you will be slung
close, yet wherever we are is right.
The pull is strong;
a kite tugging at its string.

Brick-dust tumbles
with last reach for light,
choked leaves gasping for air.

Cigarette ends and spiders
come and go
like traffic on the road.

Violet against terracotta,
a Maasai on an African plain -
burning thirst.

Rain drips along
upright canals of grout
slurped by parched roots.

Crinkled buds
like babies’ hands,
drenched, unfold.

Me and dad used to watch bats;
lie on the grass in the gap
between the house and hedge.

Shards of glass
against the barely black
half-light of July.

Flying in drops and dives
twisted kites
tossed on stormy skies.

Sat on the deck
we’d hear, under the gable
the static click

of sonar, like ships;
taut sails,
riddled with mites and ticks.

I remember that grey battered thing
when the wool was tight and clean,
chosen just for her I thought and laughed
outright.

That cardigan was screaming out
in the early bright June sun,
and I threw back my head laughing
as I balanced along a wall.

I didn’t see it again ‘til Easter
of the following year.
Loosely hanging in a darkened café,
on the back of a broken chair.

That cardigan hung so limp
when I ran and hid.
Chuckling in my corner
as it crumpled on the floor.

Strolling from the bed,
my body gently shrouded.
Held in perfect comfort
of floppy, old, loose wool.

Pull the cord.
Click click.
Plunge into night.

Next-door’s light is oil on a puddle
through the dappled window -
bubbles on brown tiles.

Folded towels on toilet lid,
clothes crumpled on lino.
Skin pricked in frozen air.

Knotted hair falls,
shoulders lower into the tank,
steam rising from cold tin.

A baptism - of sorts.
Astreamofbreath.
Open mouth, choked,

soaked in this womb,
this tiny ocean.
Lungs searing,

eyes stinging,
light specks dart.
Water’s skin unbroken.

Me and Dad used to watch bats
lying on the grass in the gap
between the house and hedge.

Shards of glass
against the barely black
half light of July night.

Flying in drops and dives
like twisted kites
tossed in stormy skies.

Or sat on the deck
we’d hear, under the gable
the static click

of sonar, like ships;
taut sails, riddled
with mites and ticks.

I’m sitting with my feet upon the taps,
your naked body slightly squashed behind.
I take down my hair, upon my shoulders feel it fall,
closely followed by your damp hand.
The air thick with watery smoke
and scratching at the door is your **** cat.

I’m sure she thinks she’s your mistress, your cat
and as we soak together her claws tap
out in the hall. I think if the place went up in smoke
she’d take her chance to save you, leaving me behind.
I’ve tried building bridges, putting down my hand
but she just sniffs and twitches, even her tail falls.

You climb out of the bath and the water level falls.
Open the door and in seconds you **** cat
is twisting around your legs. You’re reaching out your hand
she kisses you with her wet nose. Now you tap
away downstairs, she hurries on behind,
desperate for you; an addict desperate for smoke.

I find you in the garden, having a smoke
and all around you blossom falls.
Silent apart from our breathing, then, from behind,
I knew we couldn’t be rid of her, your **** cat
appears, whining! In the breeze her cat-flap taps,
she jumps up knocking the cigarette from your hand.

I place a new cigarette in your hand
and give myself one too. We smoke
together in the darkness and tap
the ends making tiny snowflakes fall.
Still we’re plagued by your **** cat
as she impatiently circles behind.

We climb the stairs with her following behind
and you laugh and lightly take my hand,
which seems to aggravate the cat.
The bedroom smells of stale smoke,
onto the mattress we fall
and in the breeze the blind taps.

As we fall asleep I feel your body behind.
I reach back my hand but instead of you it taps
something soft as smoke; between us is your **** cat.

Like a statue
he peers out. He’s watching
the people as they pass.

Calm, as they hurry by
he’s watching. Judging,
disapproving at their haste.

“Why do they rush?” he asks,
ears twitching. Watching through
the glass he is aloof.

A yawn passes over
his face. Maybe a nap
will pass some of the day.

He sits and ponders and
yawns again. Still watching
the people run.

Then suddenly he’s had
enough. And with one look
at me he saunters away.

The whir of the washing machine,
half eaten lunch setting on paper plates.
Spoons under sofas
the cat stalks it’s pray of last night’s tea.

The grey summer sky
“sunshine and showers”
tee shirts, shorts and waterproofs.
The sunhat and umbrella medly.

Mouldy orange juice from when I was last here,
stagnant.
a dripping tap
a ticking clock.

Burnt shoulders.
Gooseflesh legs.
Too hot.
Too cold.

Everybody’s gone away
theres no one out to play,
no one can come to stay
I’ll just sit in all day.

Down twisted pipes and tiled walls
garish patterns and stairs fall
deep in the earth.

Bustling bodies and trod-on feet
sweltering in grubby heat
back under ground.

Out of the black roars a dragon
and all its demons pile on
down in the dark

Up in the distance daylight calls,
up twisted pipes, tiled walls
a rush of air.

I remember that grey, battered thing
the wool tight and clean,
screaming out in bright June sun
dense, thick and heavy.

That cardigan hung so limp
when I ran and hid.
Chuckling in my corner
it crumpled on the floor.

Strolling from the bed,
my body gently shrouded.
Held in perfect comfort
of floppy, old, lose wool.

I will go back to that silent evening;
the night a silver haze.
Thick with the smell of rapeseed
and there we stood together.

I will go back to that silent hill,
the valley rolling out below us.
The moon casts about these
shadows; violet upon the track.

I will go back to that silent place
deep inside my chest.
On mid-summers eve we watched
almost all the night pass by.

I will go back to that silent room;
we both know what came next.
All the blossom on the ground,
and grass stains on our clothes.

I will go back to that silent evening
and not know the people there.
These strangers in my memory
embraced mid-summers night.

They sound like fire crackling
or cutlery scraping against a plate.

Yet silent and spinning;
a sigh swept from the chest.

Slow as a feather falls to a lake;
a kiss on the lips, a hand to the face.  

They sound like frost caught in the night,
like the static friction of your gloved hands.

Morning diamonds, damp with dew,
and trudging on in old heavy boots.

The sound of the world turning
is in the echo of each falling leaf.

Wavering, drifting until they come to the curb,
crisp and brittle and easy to break.

They sound of scarves and hats and gloves
in that constant fight for warmth.

But in the wind they sing, they’re alive,
the sound of whispers, the colour of fire.

Brick dust tumbles
with last reach for light,
choked leaves gasping for air.

Cigarette ends and spiders
come and go
like traffic on the road.

Rain drips along
upright canals of grout
slurped by parched roots.

Crinkled buds
like baby’s hands,
drenched, unfold.

Dull grey light
of night time
rolling under clouds.
A mist or cling-film over eyes,
the sky still blue overhead.  

Wind blows itself out
takes the flame of the sun.
Cold and damp under foot,
wetness in the air.

A steady snail sweeps his silent path
as birds go to sleep.
The not-quite-darkness creeps
through the slats in the blind.

When there is violet - orange in the sky
and pigeons are welcoming the morning,
there’s warmth from you on the bed where we lie,
sparrows and finches joining the calling.

My heavy eyes can sleep no longer,
but you dear, are sprawled beside me, snoring.
Away from me, let your heart grow fonder,
I want to wake you, your sleep is boring.

Gently, softly, I touch your crumpled face.
“Join me in the daylight, suns flooding in.”
I shove you, poke you, “come back to this place.”
You groan and grumble but your arguments thin.

       Hand on your brow to shade a golden beam,
       you’re frowning, coming to, leaving your dream.

There is a leaf stuck in an eddy
and stagnant water draws
close to its edge and folds.

It is torn. Its spine
and vanes stick
through brown tissue skin.

Water rushes past;
drums and drain pipes.
But the leaf and its pool are still.

Mist and foam of rapids
and the rumble of earth
are far away.

Saturated in silence
the leaf dips below
the surface and drowns.

Black as hell against this white canyon.
She’s waiting for me.
Still there.
In amongst soap and shampoo
Still.
Armed with traps and tangles;
I shall not succumb.
I shall set her free.

It is she who’s trapped not me and she doesn’t even know it.
I can take her from this barren abyss.  Her attempts are futile.
Richness awaits her,
more than just the dripping tap.

So
I stand naked.
My belly brushes against harsh coldness,
a glass and photograph in hand and I shiver from the open window.
I am bending forward.
My skin pricked tight,
I am not a coward,
I have her. She put up no fight.  

Covering all my family.
So close to her black belly we’re smiling in summer heat,
wearing baseball caps and dungarees.
I tilt the glass, I caught her leg.
Lingering we stare at each other.
Her hairy black, my fleshy pink;
like a sweet.

I could have killed her.

Out of the window she falls.
It’s dark.  I’m sure she’s fine.
All that’s left behind
is the fine web.
Hung from shower head to plug.

Splash and slosh to be sipped.
Red as blood and just as thick,
it swills in the glass.
Glugging at the bottle neck,
smelling sour sweet of summer fruit gone stagnant.

Let lose between your lips
Roll its redness round your tongue.
Rough as tobacco, or black coffee
smouldering in your throat,
like coal or soot.

And fill yourself up! Pour
into yourself this other blood;
more and more.
Until your eyes are heavy
and deathly sadness flows.

I waited for them with my hair *******,
with a necklace on and my lips red.

I saw their chairs
and all the places that were set.

I had pearls in my ears,
I had lace upon my dress.

I watched the ice melt
and the bread as it went stale.

I had kohl around my eyes,
I had bracelets on my wrist.

And I saw the wax burn down
until the wick blew out.

I had tears upon my cheeks
I had a stinging in my nose,

and I watched as the milk turned sour,
and the meat as it went cold

I had perfume on my neck
with a stench that filled the air.

And I felt the sun rise on my back,
and the moon confront it again.

Skin stings in the cold,
pupils contract,
air freezes lungs.

Shrouded in this dull ache,
blood like lead,
I’m heavy.

Like a sigh
life swept out of me,
I am a shell now.

Harsh brightness.
Coming to.
Deep breath.

Get up.

To my love,
remember me as I am.
Not spirals and ribbons
slipping through fingers.
But naked and laughing
throw your head back and sing,
cook and dance.
My head rests on your chest
or yours on my stomach.
Shrouded in warmth.
Not like this;
tangled and wounded,
broken like ice on the floor.
But cool hands cupping your face,
knotting your hair.
Remember us breathing together;
in one breath.
Lying as one.
Learn to walk again, darling,
but remember me as I am,
with you.
With love.