I am here, hiding,
under the cover
of lowered lighting
and a backdrop
of
acoustic guitar,
with a heavy glass
of London Pride:
A tongue-end taste
which takes me
back to then, 1984,
as I try to read
‘Potter on Potter.’
But I play
other songs,
from old TV shows,
inside my
head: he wrote
(almost) musicals
and smoked.
08:24. I am touching the last of a cold God,
over unevens, under unornamented woods,
now contained by us – for the good of all:
February over-sugared, overnight, here underfoot;
the stripped hedgerow is briefly lit, crowned
by the blinding hour, those umber-dipped
high stick fingers touch the very last of His
visible burnt presence.
Along the raised path, the short timber route,
over the flood-expected meadow, a convenience
for us led dog walkers, commuters, drunkards:
It has a ship’s complaint under my over-weight,
a sea worthy distrust of unstrapped cargo,
my stick a peg leg poke across her slippery deck.
Greater tussock sedges, rare Sussex lumps of grass,
green icebergs gathered, wait for the June onslaught
of Japanese knot weed, a foreign flood in this field
after the cold-breath time has been put aside, quicker
with each warmer year. The woodpecker stopped
in Buxted. 08:32.
Woodingdean, Brighton.
The razored lawn cemetery,
there, down from the road,
with lonely St Dunstan’s
always stood distant
as a fixed backdrop,
on the near-blind cliff-top,
the far site reduced
by a rolled sea fret,
as gulls in the foreground,
rain-danced on the turf
to bring up fooled worms.
Why walk such distances,
with only the weather
measuring your steps,
over The Downs,
as breaths are taken
in exertion and sights?
Why walk without
a destination,
but the next stride,
on loosened chalk paths,
side-stepping puddles.
Why walk from your fixed place,
packed-up, back-turned,
to be rained-on, blown,
to find loneliness,
to be met by hearth
and hearty places?
*Jane Volker’s blog:
http://wildatlanticwanderer.blogspot.co.uk
For Clair May.
She would climb the wall,
under lost summer-light:
A crisp swallow-dive,
the thrill-chill of night:
Leftover, chalked-up,
mean temperature,
meant nothing to her,
dusk-dip, cold, venturer.
Surfacing, ripple-waking,
false mirror’s stretch;
she gripped, bump-naked,
the pool’s hard edge:
A rough-laid return,
like a lover’s slap,
then conscious of time,
breast-stroke elapsed:
Lifted, from the water,
wet moon on her skin,
she wore Pells Pool,
back home, again.
