More poems from an earlier incarnation

Work for which, irrespective of the passing of time, I retain a lasting fondness...

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

The Grain of the Wood

Do you see that face in the grain of the wood?
The hooked nose; the frown above bushy eyebrows?
Do you sense the menace in that warped smile?
There is witchcraft and entrapment there.
Do you see the wings of that bird,
spread wide in its swoop toward the window,
lured by sunlight and the make-believe of escape?

Perhaps it is mainly children who can see these things;
innocents who see elephants and alligators in clouds
through car widows on long motorway journeys.
Is it the freedom of imagination 
or the chains of boredom
that opens their eyes this way?

Do you recall the copse near the lake
where we used to stray an age ago?
And if so, can you see, etched in your mind’s eye
the clumsy initials we once carved there?

Since you have been gone 
I have not ventured to the lake, that copse;
but somehow, once again, I can see
monsters in the grain of the wood.

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The Permanence of Shrapnel

There is a photograph of the house in
an aerial view of an estuary
and on the glass that frames it
smudge marks left by museum goers
who have pointed out his former home.

Perhaps reverence comes from knowing
genius is so elusive;
rare enough to warrant understanding, investigation.
Research triggers ethical concerns.
It is a kind of archaeology where
ideas and insights are kindled,
where suggestions and notions fall
below the common standard
that might have been expected, considering.

Ignoring vague hypotheses, for him
clarity would arise at unexpected times,
the happiest of accidents where
promise and opportunity collide
and lead him beyond the confines of his study
to words he had no intention of playing
suddenly dredged from the estuary’s silt almost,
cloaked in layers of muck and magic,
whose smoothing and polishing
unravelled complex and mythical qualities.

Yet still he feels like a hopeless casualty,
the wounding bullet still in place,
his attempts to self-medicate
wedded to the verdict of history
and the smudge marks on a photograph’s frame.

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Ripples

We used to fish in the summer,
hand-held lines disappearing into the rippling lake
invisible after the first foot or so.
We kid ourselves still about the blueness of water
and the perfection of the sky,
but on some unblemished days you could
pick out the ribs of the boat from the shore café
where our parents took tea and scones, and combined
protection with indulgence in our freedom.

Once Jack caught a small silver fish
and we argued over its name
waiting too long to return it to the water,
disappointing the girls with its needless demise.
If there were accidents, I do not recall them now.
I remember laughter and boisterousness,
and once losing an oar over the side,
the boat rocking wildly and generating
fear and fun in equal measure.
If our parents noticed they never said,
rather choosing to softly lecture us on safety
and offer mild admonishment when more than five of us
went out at any one time.
I blur those days now into a single image
- of Jack holding up the fish, the girls laughing,
and somewhere in the bow, me intent on my line
and staring through the water -
an image that has become a photograph,
something stored in my mind to represent
childhood and how it is supposed to be idyllic.

It would be good to go fishing on the lake again,
but we would need two boats now
even though Jack’s no longer with us;
his summers numbered all too few
only living on in our memory of them.

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These poems are included in Selected Poems 1976-2022.

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