distant the mountain

i
distant
the mountain
you climb
empty in the quiet space
within the skull
hard place
desert cold and dark
where you search
from whence you return

i know the land you seek

crying for the moon
i sought it too


ii
on the mountain
lying as i am
confined
all seeing

the stone of my body awakens
roots clutch
at this peopled coral
through my heart

on this slope
all knowing
all lost
waiting for the flower
dead before it blooms


iii
bleak mornings
cold in early moments
of light without sun
cold in the shadow of the mountain
where a bright bloom graces the air

that stark fay beauty found
for the promised land you seek
cry again
city desert mountain
a cry
thrown into echoes
that have yet to settle

Ninth day of August

to emptiness
somewhere beyond
any hope of an edge
touching hesitant
with strangeness
the noisesome silences

moving outwards
the lengths of a wasteland
crawled
just the thunder
of their making
disturbing the quiet
of their insanity

ceasing all function
dead eyes stare
ten-thousand years
as black grains settle

bleached sky
level ground
heat of sun
aimless scintillae
dancing
indolent
a beetle scuttles unaware
before
their crime
blooms
inane in its conception
empty
inaccessible
carving its violence
through time

and
watching
from their distant hillside
the architects
silent
motionless
locked forever to their perversion
the twisted vision
from which we are no longer free

brighter than a thousand suns

no longer
a dream
this nightmare

Sixth day of August

the sun burst today
a lifetime since
etched shadows on the wall
reached across the ruins
into the very structure of life
twisted
tore

the sun burst today
a lifetime since
etched horror on the memory
reached across the world
into the very soul of history
twisted
tore

the sun burst today
a lifetime since
etched a spectre in our hearts
that haunts us still
like all the other spectres that
twisted
tore

Good Boy

you will not hear the children sing
or dance with them
guard their beds
and ease their sorrows

you will not sleep in the sun
or amble gently in the park
scratch at fleas
and bark at shadows

you will not run in the golden woods
or splash in cool waters
chase your tail
and make them laugh

they left you
behind
to die
and
like a good dog
you did

Pripyat – April 1992

Sandcastles

I watched them heap the peach coloured sand with care, with love. It was only a small mound. They patted it into shape with long, elegant, starved fingers, leaving ridges down its sides as if it had been turned out of a jelly mould.

He stood first, leaning with great weariness on his staff, the hot wind catching his torn robes. She remained crouched, keening, singing a lullaby, crying. Then, exhausted, she stood as well. Beneath the hot sun they said one last prayer over the grave of their baby and began the long walk back to the feeding station, picking their way with care between the myriad rows of tiny sandcastles.

The hot wind continued to blow, smoothing, wearing, grain by grain by grain…

Traveller

I discovered
a time machine
travelled back
and saw you sitting
beneath that tree
went searching for
my mum and dad
caught nothing more
than a fleeting glimpse of
their childhood

saw unicorn
and grace and belle
sunshine moments
framed forever
half forgotten

there are places
it will not take me
places where
I must use
my own resources

I stood a long while
upon the lake shore
by the house boat
saw distinctly the sapphire flash
was overwhelmed by the smell
of sandalwood and rose oil
overwhelmed by
tears

decades traversed
in a few twilight hours
the journey ended where it started
with a handful of photographs
in a box
my time machine

I have been

I have been in many shapes:
I have been a needle in the gun;
I have been a plane in the air;
I have been a shining brow;
I have been a book in a head;
I have been a victory in war;
I have been a flame in the darkness;
I have been a voice for the mute;
I have journeyed as a moonbeam;
I have been a queen of the lake;
I have been a feather in a merlin’s wing;
I have been a word in a spell;
I have been a tear in the eye;
I have been the string of a harp;
I have been enchanted for a year in the light of stars.
There is nothing in which I have not been.