STILL LIFE
I
The flesh of a half-pared lemon
Shines in the pure white helmet
Of its pith; the pale rind spirals
Downwards. On the board a broken loaf
White beneath a pale gold crust
Scatters its crumbs across the canvas.
A glass stands empty. Nothing remains
Untouched. Uneaten, a dish of oysters
Prised from their beds are split to show
The softness of their parts
Gleaming in the roughness of their shells.
These are not the remnants of a feast
This is a feast of remnants
II
Below the hill at dusk the church
Floats into visibility like a fish
Belly-side up. The chancel windows
Mosaiced amber, grey and red rise
Above the candles and the prayers.
I meditate upon the name:
Eglise Sainte Marie Madelaine
Both prostitute and saint.
The exit passageway is narrow
An arrow points the way directing us
To pass a sister with a begging bowl
Statue still against the wall.
My coin, tinkling in her hollow cup,
Causes an alarum. Instantly she flings
Her face to heaven, crosses herself as though
To ward off all my devils and, in an
Extravagance of muttered praise
Thanks God, not me, for her deliverance.
He seems so far above her that it is His feet
We strain to see above her head and not
His face. We are sous bois
Where all the coloured chaos is collected
Into the space beneath the roots of trees –
Parabola of Paradise or hellish hole –
In garnered gaudiness. Dormice, Roses,
Bullfinches and Periwinkle, shells and feathers
Shelter in the tangled growth blown here by who knows
What artistic whimsy. The patient lidless gaze
Of slack-jawed snakes belie their watchfulness
The slightest move provokes a lightning dart
A whirling habit blackening the blessing of Creation into curse.
THE OXFORD GIRL
Here the city ends:
a final row of houses,
low, uneven,
face the waterside.
In the lamplight,
railings cast their shadows
on the grass,
laying their stripes like stitchmarks
on a scar
joining road to river.
Moonlight paints the rooftops white.
Behind the yellow door
in an empty room
dust clings to the carpet
thickening into
fluff. Grey ash
in the blackened grate
stirs in the chill night air.
Wind sifts through the billowing curtain nets:
deep under layers of air
that weigh upon
her chest and press her down
she lies beneath
the rippling waves that flow
across the ceiling
night after lamplit night.
DITCHED
She sits by the roadside
crunching an apple
his ripe corn dolly
off-duty barmaid
hair blond and braided.
He flattens the field with her
plaiting her platinum
limbs underneath her
tying her neck
in a bright tight knot.
He tramples the husks of her
into the ditch
then spinning the spokes
of her battered back wheel
he walks to his car
Sunday driver
going to the pub
to eat his lunch.
* * *
What was she doing,
out in the countryside
all by herself?
Asking for trouble.
Tomorrow he’ll move
back up north.
TOURNESOLS
Sunflowers are captives of the soil.
Factoried in fields,
they turn their open faces to the sun
forever following its path across the sky,
counting its steps.
Tethered to the earth, they strain
at ropes invisible.
Sunflowers themselves are suns
kept from the sky
where they would float and bob
burgeoning until
they fill its blue with overlapping
brightnesses
a canopy of yellow
drying to autumn brown
raining seeds upon the ground
to nourish the dead
skyward
on their journey home.
Sunflowers are worshippers
their gaze unwavering:
on nightwatch
they do not close their darkened eyes
but see the stars played out
behind the curtain of the Milky Way
and planets steadfast as themselves
untwinkling stare:
now Mars, now Venus, now
Jupiter’s blood-smeared gold
and moons that swim
in retinue
treading deepest water,
holding invisible hands.
And yet at dawn, the light
that seeps into the eastern sky
will draw their faces –
turning on their returning god
that same look that they gave him
when he set.
Leave a comment