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Giles Goodland |
Giles Goodland has had a few books published by small and microscopic presses, his last was A Spy in the House of Years (Leviathan, 2001). He lives in London and works in Oxford.
Returns
These clouds were made in America.
This rain-cratered varve
on the car-bonnet that you draw off
with your finger is from the Sahara.
The birds are listing continents.
Your skin appears seamless but
you know it has been manufactured
at great expense, over many years.
As another Sundays shifts an
unpindownable wind across the lawn,
it’s a struggle to plant your feet, to
believe firmly enough you are here.
Even stillness comes in the
shape of a garden that is
crashing through space,
noiselessly, and at great speed.
The Night Feeding
Clouds were packing up for the day.
The light was negotiable
and you, past your bedtime, broke a puddle
into its constituents of light and cold.
Then, remember: those birds conjuring
from shadows, monochrome geese
prestidigitating. You cast bread
onto the car-park and drew them closer
and behind them, the sky half
visible, off-black, concealed
the arched or squat forms
of further congregations,
and their mirthful stilted talk.
A heron landed in front of us:
a contraption, hinged and
cantankerous, built by impractical gods.
A coot, wrongfooted, tripped
into water, toggled away
with the last piece of white
until it was a flake on a wall
under two coats of paint,
on a house that never was.