Did God know, when he made
The world that he would make you
And you would make mini
World’s out of his shiny
Offcuts?
Of course, God knows everything
God is everything, God’s work
Is intricate, the diamond
The cut, the carve, the egg
Hatches.
It reminds us of the surprise
Of birth, of Spring, every
Year, reborn, but totally
Unexpected in its
Dazzling
Light everywhere, swimming in the brooks,
Springing off each root and mound of moss.
Then underneath the light, the quiet heat
Softly prizes lamb-pink blossoms out of blue.
Light, we can
Dance again,
Without the
Rules of Frost
To hem us in.
The year is in its adolescence
It is trying its body on for size
But not yet used to its long legs
And sex and looks
Awkward when it walks and feels
Awkward when the full formed daffodils
Suggest a cheeky bit of summer before dinner
; – )
There is hope, there is memory
But there is no knowing what will be
Beyond this time of promise, heavy with buds that
May or may not
Bear fruit, depending on whether
Frost sweeps Autumn’s sweets or thunder
Brightens all souls to glinting parodies of Paradise
: – )
The heaviness has
Gone
Whatever made the beach sand pound has
Gone
And is now ebb and flow
In softer
Dapples to the livelier light.
Then the grey torpor
Heaps
Sifted through Day’s warm mesh,it
Sits
On the bottom of the sea waiting
To be ground
Again by Winter’s deepest tide.
I am done with this day
Put it back on the shelf
Or in my bag, that way
I can read it on the
Bus, if I change my mind
For one that wants to be
Reading something new.
Now is old, blank and clean,
That extra page preserved
For silent doodling, no-
One watching or listening
Now that ‘The End’ has passed.
This is the time of year when
Music needs to dig deep
To find us, rap a rope
Around our waists and wind
Us up to the light.
This is the time of year
When summer sounds are
Hollow and clatter round
Like flies scanning for jam
Round an empty jar.
This is the time of year
When Love’s warmth is
Set in relief against the
Grey, when any ray is welcomed
Like a hero from the war.
This is the time of year
When something as tiny as a
Crocus bud is all the hope
We need to prove again that
Life springs from mud.
This is when we harvest
What we sowed in Spring
And saw in June, July and
August; this is the cut and
Dry, the funeral of the year
When we still have its aged
Flesh with us in the room,
Testament to the wind, the
Rain, the sun and the long
Days spent filling up with
Juice and flavour, ready for
The journey back to ground,
Earth, soil: core to core.
This is the dark
Before the dawn of
2011, the beginning
Of a new end, the
Time before the day
When darkness comes in
Waves and cars
Whistle past unseen their
Cargoes too excited
Happy buzzing hysterical
Tipsy nauseous, to be asleep.
This is the time, the closer
Bit to silence, when thoughts
Expand to the edges of the
Room to fill it whole with consciousness
Before the dawn
Switches on and
It goes pop, dazzled
By the light and bursts to smithereens
That disperse across
London to meet
Their final resting places
On park benches, church spires,
Kebab signs and windowsills
Of strangers, and of friends.
Rest, oh rest peacefully, let
The year float off and keep
The best bits clean and crispy
To savour slowly over Time
And nourish away regret,
Pain has left.
Being Every Day 