Merchant

Who is the Shop Keeper,

and why does she never take a holiday,

dust her empty shelves

or scrub her doorstep?

Why does her shop stay open

longer than the 24 hour garage over the way?

Why does she never refuse credit,

though such generosity often offends?

Why is she never short of customers

queuing up to pay her exorbitant prices?

See her after closing time,

adding up her day's takings

by a skim of lamplight,

now and then tasting a tear,

to see if it rings true on the tongue…

Doesn't she know such salt currency

will never make her rich?

I'm just one among millions now

in the street's city, by the sea's ocean,

by dawn's dusk and the long white nights of summer.

To stop myself thinking about all the days and nights

we'll never share,

I keep myself busy as a maternity hospital

nine months after a catastrophic city-wide power failure.

We were two among millions, oblivious of crowds,

content with our pauper-treasure,

our long-running nuptials.

But the random harper, who has but one torn tune,

has played you his tune -

now I'm just one among millions,

will never magnify the Lord again in this lifetime.

Better to be water

       endlessly on the move

       from source to tide,

that also escapes,

however fiercely held -

              better to be thoughtless fire,

or earth in its constant sleep,

but I'm flesh and blood,

              unable to believe

the world is just as beautiful now

as it was

              that zero-blue morning

on the clifftop at Maenporth

when we saw

              a crystal mirage

of columned temples and palaces

standing on the water

              through which a fishing boat glided,

oblivious to the wonder -

       Not believing the evidence of our eyes,

       we asked a passing hiker,

can you see that?

       His astonishment confirmed ours -

       there it was - skimming the waves,

a Byzantium of ice

       built from the collaboration

              of light and frozen vapour,

                     and offering it to us

Four Cathedrals

As I travelled alone

by train

from Edinburgh

to London

one bright December day

four years ago

I counted each cathedral

I saw -

first came proud Durham,

dark lord

lording it

over dark river

and dark city -

and second

The Minster at York,

sunlit prince,

tall and fair -

Third came Lincoln,

fair as any jewel,

caring for the sky

the way a sparrow-hawk cares…

then Peterborough's highest manse,

queenly and sad,

more golden

than warrior Durham,

worldlier than York -

I looked out

at field after field

of winter wheat,

green shoots

pricking through

earth so black

it seemed charred

by some fearful conflagration -

Then I saw

many little stands

of silver birch

bright as linnets

in the low sun,

and these also you could not see,

nor the glitter of water-ditches

nor the sudden tremors

of rain

that flew out of nowhere

like orioles on the wing,

nor could you see

dear defaced London

set out before me

in my mind's eye,

in all its many grids and colours,

like the most beautiful giving map

I'd ever seen…

(a giving map shows the extent of charity donations across a specific area)

Tear by tear

through a door

smaller than a teardrop

Door by door,

I come back,

uphill and down dale,

mother and daughter in one,

all hours and no minutes

Moon by moon,

I return,

eyelash by eyelash

Storm by storm

and room by room,

I come back,

because you wish it

Mirror by mirror,

I return,

unforeseen,

stealing sleep

from the sleepers

Back I come

Do not unwish me