Fear of Climbing

I have my inner tremor,
my lower jaw mumbles,
my right hand joins in,
connectedness concurs
to plot, and I cannot
easily climb the stairs,
instead piss in the garden
the less-stepped option –
until this house (for-the-fit)
is re-made, is bomb-proofed
to the extents it can be,
because I cannot live
like this and still be,
I’ll not let inched timbers
and imperial bricks unsettle me.


God’s Acre

Weddings and funerals, in the rare trip-place,
butted stone markers, dropped fags, and ill-grace:

Here Lies.. (A.N.Other) her time out-of-date,
alongside the latest, a brief recall in plate.

Our churchyards cursed by poets-come-thieves,
those poachers of hymns, and cheats in belief:

Let them stride loose, between slabs, low laid,
the church a salvation for those on crusades;

a theme park for tourists, a tick on their list,
a walk with the dead, shot quick on phone-sticks;

slowed-up in the aisle, as their eyes look to glass,
God’s kindles of colour can’t be caught on iPads.

In the yard scans the poet, as the thief wanders wide,
he is often disturbed, God is not on his side.

Continuation

This is my constant (since childhood):
along a rough path of almost-identified
bird song, high-scattered;

but I am no longer drawn to the slip and suck
of uneven grasses, to be welly-filled
so my socks squelched:

Not over the land topped by last year’s
stamped brambles: As ever the grey sky
has dropped,

she rests lightly on this damp copse,
where locked-in trees are north-greased
against climbers.

The birds I once shot, our farmers’ pests,
ruminate overhead on bowed wires,
adjusting with flap-claps,

and, still, ever, that distant roll of
tarmac breeze, of sped tyres
on a constant road.


The Doppelgänger

St Theresa sat
on Trump’s stiff knee,
to him she was
a limey Queen,
but in her head she’s
Thatcher’s clone:
‘This dame’s my idea
of a woman I’d bone!’
Perhaps the future’s
perfect couple,
they both agree
to cause less trouble.
Hand-in-hand,
off they go,
but he’ll dump her soon
in Guantanamo.