the lava boys

They walk around in circles

looking for trouble,

rocks in their pockets,

eyes like orange mirrors.

My mother told me

to run if I saw them,

but once I let them catch me.

They trussed me up in ribbon

and made me listen to tales

of their ‘expedition to the interior’:

how they had to wear pyjamas

under their sou’westers,

how the light smelled of sugar,

how, late one night,

a star sliced open

the top of their tent.

Published in London Magazine, Autumn 1998

in the ministry

In the ministry,

everyone is sleeping,

face down in bowls of soup

and plates of boiled cabbage.

Some say

the doors go on forever.

Others say

there are no doors.

 Published in London Magazine, Summer 1998

the lobster catcher’s lament

She is always late.

I wait on the beach for hours,

the skin on my toes

wrinkling like bark.

Each day I send her

a watch in the post,

then stand in her garden,

my net spread wide.

Published in London Magazine. Summer 1998