Tuesday, 1 September 2015

The Season Changes

The season changes. 
It’s only the first day of September 
and already the shadows 
of the pine trees grow darker.

Saturday, 29 August 2015

Night Fishing

I collapse in a collapsible camp chair. The rods point to the sky, the left has a red light, the right a green. The tide is coming in, the grey blue waves blend with the darkening sky until sea and air become one. People become distant: their voices echo and whisper at the same time. The clouds are full of smoking menace until they blend with the sky, the sea which is as still as a mill pond, the tide coming in and lights on the end of the far peninsula that marks a romantic section of the coast. Orange lights on the promenade turn the sand a strange, alien yellow and the fish can be seen, black shapes breaking through the water where the gulls touch down. The green light moves. The pole strains as George lifts it skyward reeling for all that he’s worth. A flat diamond shape hauled through the surface of the water, a skate brown as an earthenware plate to add to the two white shapes already dead on the sand although still twitching as the nervous system ticks on. The tide keeps coming in and I can no longer tell where sand ends, sea begins or where it touches the sky. I am happy to let go and become part of it fairly certain that this must be what it is like in the end. The boom of the waves and the distant bang of thunder on the glittering peninsula.

Monday, 24 August 2015

Obvious Swathe

Airless August. I feel like I’m drowning
It takes a will of iron to keep on the path.
Dry dust snaking between waist high wheat, 
a few green rogues ringing their unwelcome bells
under a blazing sun. 
At twenty something
you have the luxury of projecting
your image into an imagined future:
picture the life that you’d like,
the right people and place. 

A yellow combine travels in a cloud of dust
a streamlined machine, beautiful as a bug.
The driver in a glass cabin, bent forward 
at the controls, cap perched on his head
as he cuts an obvious swathe.

Sunday, 23 August 2015

Farmers Take A No Nonsense Approach To Dung

Farmers take a no nonsense approach to dung. 
They sluice the concrete, sweep through detergent bubbles 
until the yard is dinner plate clean. 

Yellow maps on the parched lawn, 
you can almost hear them sigh with relief 
as the flooding rain fills potholes 
and the drains can’t cope with the downpour. 
The chicken doesn’t have the sense to take shelter, 
her feathers darken and plaster the body 
in a way that changes the bird out of all recognition, 
a bedraggled punk rocker lost at the festival 
where normal rules do not apply. 

So it is with us. 
I’d like to take a hard bristle brush to the yard 
and sweep the detritus of our war away. 
Clothes drenched on my skin and the relief of peeling them off 
and putting something warm and dry on again. 
An email alludes to world affairs and concludes 
by making light of a sad situation. 

Ominous, I think. More clouds, more rain.

Thursday, 20 August 2015

Clouds Seen From The Other Side

A name of a place never visited still conjures up memories. Here is the grey church built from substantial blocks. The stonemason with his sleeves rolled up, honest work in return for an honest old age. It was his own face that he built. Friends that have long gone still insist on dropping by: it has something to do with the rain, water is a carrier for the distillations of their various souls. The rain patterns the windows in the church. The high window with diamond leading and glass that magnifies the clouds seen from the other side. 

Pages

Morlock Oil

Morlock Oil
A new collection of stories available now . Click on image for details.

The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery

The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery
New Chapbook Available (email rockinahill@gmail.com for details)

Furrow

Furrow
Bunchgrass Press

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