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?
The Harper
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
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,
as if a glitter-architect was working
with the most elusive
and rare fabrics she could find -
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 -
and I thought of you,
two years dead,
unable to share these sights
with me -
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)
The Return
Tear by tear
I come back
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