To Ahenny where slate spills from the land like prehistoric teeth.I bite back, snap with my new camera, angled for scenic views, fail to capture that dead outreach,
The crowd surge forward. They all wear blue. Despite the uniformity, I pick out faces. Each expression is unique. I focus on a young man – his brown eyes are round and expectant. His childish complexion gives him a glow. I don't want to see him dashed.
Dead Nettle, the words have a rattle. Death should not belong to soft lilac, or even the green, wing-like leaves that dress you, coquettish weed.
The smoke is oppressive, dangerous. Cassandra watches it curl around the armchair and already she can imagine its source – a long cigarette, dangling from the pursed lips of a grey-faced man. Every wrinkle is part of a complex pattern. She has traced paths through that face, has seen it close to her own, close enough to the feel the cool flame of his breath.
I've been working on some poetry, lately. I know this isn't a startling revelation, but I'm quite pleased with how these particular poems are shaping up. One was inspired by the memory of my first scan in pregnancy. I was struck by the sonographer's words 'everything you see on the screen is bone . . .' and this led me to my opening line: 'When they tell you, your baby is bone.'
TreeI take down the tree, unwreathe its arms of tinsel and bauble. Now it is pure and green and dark, a figure without cover.
The ShoreA shot of sea spills its gut, deep music.
As a starfish, I am pointy, shiny and spirited, with a zest for water. The tank allows me to see out into the world without taking part. I can float and watch and wait. The only problem occurs when a handler introduces me to a child.
I find the river. I feel the walk beneath my soles. The sky holds a spreading heat and I follow the light into the water, where it dapples, moves through green weed and over stones. A fish startles to life and I see him flick through the depths.