Revive A Version Of Me

Revive a version of me
On quiet pages written,
Within a work I’ll never read,
Upon a different Britain.

For though the bandits won,
Those scoundrels and the bigots,
And all our lovers, woebegone,
Drowned on foreign frigates;

When all’s accounted, more or less,
Our xenophobes decanted,
Abusers too, then eat their mess,
And feed MPs replanted,

Then perhaps, the maps I find
Will chart more coloured places,
Less partisan, this paradigm,
With free and hopeful faces.

O Barqueiro, A Coruña

To finally sleep
Is all my thinking needs.

A stone in the slowly
Unfurling
Ocean,
Insistent waves,
Incessant waves
Murmuring
Unseen.

But I am afraid
Of the
Deep,
Deep,
Deep.

Dark fish are there,
Gloomy, alone; they forget;
Through dank seaweed stare,
And by trawler nets
They are longing for home.

Yet how can I ever go home.
There are no stones left
To throw and there are
No oceans here,
Just the sounds
Of lawnmower motors
And dogs beserkly barking
At nothing at all.

Boondocks Soul

Harvest moon,
Spoke too soon,
Sometimes this sadness
Could encircle
Vast treelines
In crimson lagoons.

I dreamt of the rest
While I slept on a boon.

Snow falls in my dreams
All year round;
Underneath,
A grey-bluish peat,
A muteness abounds.

Hoped for the best,
Received so much less,
I woke to a scent
I would describe
Neologistically
As nutmeggishness.

A northern moorhen cried;
The harvest also died.
I said I spoke too soon.

The Seamstress

If I love you,
I will lose you,
Should nature adhere
To the only rule
My empress knows.
This is my experience;
Behind her brows
With volcanic glows
A new statue is born,
Her odes and her notes
On how to cope
Bolted into my
Motionless
Cobalt palms.

If I love you,
I will lose you,
For so long I chose
The isolated way
To disprove such losses
Imprinted in
My fingertips;
My father,
My brothers,
My daughter,
The others;
My friends,
My purpose,
A memory of lovers,
My name
Without end;
Even her squid ink blood
And her cuttlefish bones
Say they are unable to mend
My skipping-heart stones.

If I love you,
I will lose you,
So forgive me
If sometimes
I dye my eyes and
Blind myself from love,
Hermetically sealed
In a bluebell forest
Of muted tears,
My self below;
Without these fears I am useless,
Her presence above
Keeps me in the only
Lonely mortality
I have ever known.

Softly, as soft as the first falling snow,
Softly her sadness is sewn.

Time Capsule

Carefully,
O so carefully,
Three convenors
Unpacked my
Cracked and dullish
Antique soul,
Dusted it down,
Then planted her
Purged uncertain
Roots preserved
Diligently,
As diligently as
Ushers for Autumn,
And as attentively
As heavenly plotters
For a gravedigging daughter.
There was no little ceremony,
Deft moves with economy
All of their own,
Padlocks and padding,
Bricks for the weighting,
Their lips switching
Beyond linguistics
And everyday knowledge,
The ways of nature,
The birds in their words
And trees in their homage,
Uttering under each breath
Esoteric phrases –
The curse of the left –
As by my soul
I was slowly dripped
Into a humble
Unadorned
Time capsule.

A commemorative
Century passed by;
Then, without plaques
Or fanfares
Or industry all adrift,
An appointed time
Arrived, silently,
With nobody there
To open the lid.