When the man rolled the moon
into the car park, in broad daylight,
I thought, what will the painters
of moonlight do now?
for instance, will rise from his grave
to see no more the green glow
on a winter sky. No more would I
behold the moon ascending,
birthing from its neck of cloud
with full corona.
How can I bear this
manhandling into the trailer?
Shackled, driven off to be
pulverised and honed into
zillions of moonstones, which
we will all wear as widows
and widowers of the moon.
And the sea will
barely rock in its cradle.
I started early, took my pen
and visited the sea,
the sky had pearled inside its shell
and mellowed over me.
Never had sea-grey seemed so full
a brimming satin sheen
as if there were no breeze and I
could fly and fall in dream.
My pen I held above the line
until the wake of ink
summoned itself in parallel
and glimmered on the brink.
Inside the jar of sleep
I am clambering up like a wasp.
I could be rocking
back and forward,
the sun smudged in fuchsia
on a patch of ice blue,
in a burning net of cloud,
dragging me somewhere
out on the heath
where silver birches flex
their split ends against the cold.
Strung filaments and cirrus trails
gather round this day of skirts –
a red and yellow sun dog –
it feels like rain.
I persist in an afternoon –
a sky that needs walking into.
With a thousand plus
strobes of blue
teasing the lake
in a damsel heat-wave,
one lights on a green blade –
its azure back, electric, static,
wired through tissue
like a webbed angel.
I listen to Jimi Hendrix, Foxy Lady, in the dark, drink milk
in chilled cartons on Victoria Station. Beyond the factory
hours of vacation working, I don’t know what I’ll do.
The two of us deep in the forest, summer
under two-man canvas, the tearing rasp of cows
at night and will they see the guy ropes?
I don’t know if I want a baby.
I review my life:
I love The Nutcracker Suite, being at the ballet –
my neighbour’s treat – still dreaming the dancer.
Does my English teacher want her poetry books back?
Twenty more years before I know she told them
I’d be a writer.
How will I survive being away from you, behind the door
of this university room?
You hitch-hike all the way to see me.
They would have loved a proper wedding – dad
to give me away, mum fussing round the bridal gown,
petting the grandchildren already born.
I stop wearing the mini-skirt.
I don’t know that I do love you is not forever.
I read Rachel Carson and believe the sea is dying.