while the rest of the house is curled in sleep,

she stands so still at the kitchen window

a stranger out walking in the dawning fields

might take her for a vase of wildflowers.

The Long Holidays

The day stretches ahead – nothing but

grass and sky grass and sky grass and sky grass and sky

as far as the eye can see

nothing but

sky and grass sky and grass sky and grass sky and grass

and the wind galloping hard over the fields

like a riderless horse.

As I Walked Out

Don’t tell me you’ve never dreamed of this –

of waking in a room with a wide open window,

the air clear and ringing after night rain;

of needing no other reason than a sky

the unbelievable blue of which

sends you flitting deftly through the house

past the year-old jar of nails and flies,

the pile of dishes in the sink, and out the back door

where you’re caught for an instant in the brightness

because the future’s so much easier than you’d thought –

slipping your heart under the rosebush like a key,

everything you need in the canvas bag

resting lightly at your hip

and life as simple as turning left or right.

Who She Is

If you want to know who she really is

sit beside her quietly on the morning bus,

observe the way her green glass earrings

pick out the flowers in her summer dress,

then watch closely as she puts down her pen

to stare across a field of silvery brassicas.

Now imagine devouring, leaf by leaf,

each sweet and tightly folded heart.

Long Exposure

The goods have survived – the displays

of ribbons and perishables,

windows of iced patisserie,

a greengrocer’s pyramid of apples.

So too, more hazily,

have those with nowhere to go –

the shoe-shine boy materialised

at the foot of his dark-suited client

or the woman sitting alone in a pavement café

with time on her hands.

Though in the light of this past

where a smile is out of the question

and the slightest gesture

makes a ghost of skin

more faithful still

is the appearance of emptiness:

a mid-morning street quiet with sun

like the moment after truth or disaster,

an absence which is really desire –

to be somewhere else

whether better or worse hardly matter

just as long as we’re moving…

The Glass House

It’s what you’ve always dreamed of:

room after room tidal

with light

like a mind

that keeps on emptying itself –

by day a blue you could almost

reach out and touch,

by night – curled soft as fruit –

nothing between you

and the stars.

It’s where you’ve always lived:

walking down the rain-glazed street

or past the budding park –

this window which –

like a child or bird –

you beat your heart against:

thin and clear

and everywhere you look.

*  *  *

What Happens While We Are Sleeping

Frost. Foxes. Owl-kills.

The wheel of stars.