as if I could dare you to appear.

They say not being given

what we pray for

is also an answer: the blue sky at dawn

with its wafer of moon,

the embankment buddleia

burning with admirals.

Waiting Places

They seem so nondescript – these quiet shelters

and sidings where we idle like children

for lifts, for buses and trains, for something

to carry us away;

these cracks in our lives

where Traveller’s Joy takes root,

turning into Old Man’s Beard as we wonder

what to do with our evenings.

Week after week the grey rag flaps

invisibly, snagged in the bare branches,

the girl last seen in jeans, a red T-shirt’s

still missing.

What if one hazy afternoon,

Greensleeves drifting from across the park,

this Rorschach of spilt paint on the pavement,

opened its wings?

The Nature of Things

An ordinary hour –

hot in the shade

the sour smell of privet

from overgrown front gardens,

the children drowsy as flies

in the long glass classrooms.

The traffic clears and in the gap

the thought occurs

like birdsong –

At this moment

no one is thinking of me

or even knows I’m here –

not your husband

tapping gently at his keys,

not your daughter

laying out clothes for the evening,

not a single friend or relation,

distant or close.

A word now from a stranger

and you’d follow without question,

your bag of bread and milk

left unattended in the sun.

The green man shines,

no one crosses

and what arrives instead

through a haze of pollen and light

is a voice telling you again

never to go up

or down the stairs

without carrying something,

that it’s the nature of things

to be always

in the wrong place.

Blessed Art Thou

First I watched you kneading the dough,

how you put your whole body into it,

the surprising strength of your slim fingers.

Next you swept each room of the house

as if it were spring,

as if you were expecting a guest.

I couldn’t tell from this if you were blessed,

except by my presence, the words I had been charged with

beginning to burn.

Sensing this, perhaps, you kept yourself busy

until there was nothing more to be done:

the vase of lilies set in the centre of the table.

Believe me, if I could have left you then,

as you stepped back to admire

the flowers’ golden tongues…

but you chose that moment, at last, to rest,

your skin filmed and shining,

your warmth rising against me like bread.

I want to go back to The Angel

Why won’t somebody take her?

It’s only a short walk away

across the late summer allotments

where the dill must already be running to seed.

Meanwhile, here are Tunes from the War –

her head grows feathery with voices

in a room bright as a kindergarten.

A meal appears out of nowhere and is frightening.

Then it’s time for undressing again,