For Simon & Beata, from 1977 & After.

PAPER BOAT  

slowly  

slowly  

like a paper boat  

turning in the wind  

on a glassy pond   

slowly  

slowly  

like a huge ship  

spinning in a boundless sea  

slowly  

slowly  

like a slurred boom  

on the edge of heaven  

slowly  

slowly  

you are going your way  

I cannot reach you.  

I modulate my voice  

speak twice as loud;  

I let you fall asleep

and do not intervene

I watch you slip,

slip

slip away

into the infinite firmness of age

slowly

slowly

you are going

and I cannot stop you;

what will be left

will be the echo of your voice

saying

just give me a hug son

slowly

slowly

you are turning

slowly

slowly

you are going away

ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. JULY 2022

2

HIM

do you see him?

I do.

I see him so well,

now,

as if cataracts have been removed,

or darkness lifted,

or Bartimaeus met in town, betraying

the sight of men like trees, walking.

for there he is,

down this thought

and down that,

down every thought;

lurking inescapably,

stale as water that will not drain away,

blooming like an unkillable weed

on my perfect spotless green-as-life wildflower lawn.

yes,

there, there he is,

the bastard uninvited guest,

the foul changeling

morphing, little by little

bit by bloody bit

into the host.

at first, he was shockingly rare;

a parent here,

a distant friend,

a wise and gentle witch;

a clutch of gorgeous aunts.

now he comes like a commuter bus,

like a monstrous industrial vacuum cleaner,

like a tsunami mutilating

with its froth of white-brown brine,

gathering the broken limbs of far flung homes

a vortex,

churning, sweeping far inland to claim

a close friend here,

another there,

mother-in-law,

a mad and lovely herbalist,

another aunt.

plucked from their stops;

and others,

always others, waiting in further stops,

huddled

under the flimsy

rooves of bus shelters

as if they could ever evade this acid rain.

how do I tell him to fuck off

to fuck off to the furthest

bitter boundaries of the universe,

to the ends of time,

to the black mysterious ether

bubbling in unimagined territories,

the godless limitless lands

no maps depict;

how do I tell him to go,

to go, and not return;

to fuck right off

when I hear him

now,

when I hear him

now,

inside of me?

ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. MARCH 2023

3

RAVEN

those most I know

those noises go;

and mad minds

draw the raven

ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023

4

OUR TIME

no longer do you

worry about what next to do

you are submerged by sleep

like the waves of Lyme Bay

we almost hear

a mile away,

Hope Cove, Thatcher’s Rock,

rolling, one upon another

you have lived so long,

so bloody long

putting one foot before the next.

I sit beside you.

a terrible rain

beating on the windows,

feeding you chocolates

when you wake;

playing you music –

the old tunes of the war,

of Calcutta,

of Bill and Ben,

Glenn Miller,

the ragged random paths

through almost 100 years of life

ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023

5

PAPA

you are so frail now.

your body twitches with random movements

fingers, knees

watching sometimes

alive,

stubbornly alive

hanging on,

in case something

important has been forgotten,

and needs to be done

before you go.

ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023

6

GOOD

it is not reciprocal

this good, you know -

as if it might return

to coat you back

like a bee with pollen

ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023

7

ALREADY

already,

yes already

I am already saying goodbye.

you sleep much more now

hears little

eat less.

you cling to your bed

like an iron sparrow

clinging to its tree

almost,

you are not here.

almost.

tomorrow

or if not tomorrow,

then someday soonish

you will have gone,

died,

buggered off;

left this planet,

left me.

and that will be it.

no amount of negotiated language

can put us both back

breathing the same air

in the same room.

and that, of course,

will also be

when my own oxygen

starts slowly

to run out too.

ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023

8

BUT FOR

but for your shoulder’s

briefest

briefest twitch

you could be dead.

beyond the half-closed curtains

and the open window,

parakeets call from mango trees;

crows caw;

an unendable burr of grasshoppers

summons from smooth green lawns:

and here, too

the ordinary thrill of country noises

hum,

and echo,

and chatter,

and splash.

at night,

foxes bark,

owls whoop;

and

baa-baa bleat the sheep

in their long sad day’s lament.

oh yes, daddy,

yes:

of course you are here and now –

here and now,

here and now,

still as a corpse,

deaf as a shell,

weak as an infant;

in pain, in fear,

tired, tearful, fretful, finished, forgetful,

utterly forgetful –

but here, now.

come,

let us think

beyond -

beyond this quiet room,

this modest, unaffronting room

where, just beyond your window

any country could wait.

come, let us think

beyond -

beyond this kind and cautious building;

beyond the kind lanes of Devon

and the buildings

rooted in red earth;

beyond the ceaseless misty drizzle,

the hedgerows high as chimneys