afternoons out with the military historian

 We met once a week in the war museum

beneath the barrel of the rusty howitzer.

He was always early, his maps spread out on the waxy floor,

manoeuvring his forces, amassing on my borders.

Later, when my capital was flying his flag,

he’d lie across the Habsburg Empire

while I sat in Tsarist Russia, his head in my lap,

listening to his recurring dream

of himself as a cannonball

fired from his bed in a powdery flash,

splintering through the ceiling and roof,

shattering the stars one by one.

Published in Ambit, Spring 2000

after dark

Those roundabout routes had you in mind:

past the schools, along the shore,

ending up, as if by chance,

outside your house with the frosted door,

where once I saw him drop you off,

the headlights of his rented car,

scorching my shadow onto the wall,

clutching air, reaching for the stars.

Published in The Interpreter’s House, Winter 2000

grey lady

The boy who cut his head in the snow

said he saw her on the stairs.

With his torch, he showed us where

her hand touched his and left a mark

the shape of the island

or the shadow of the birds

that followed his boat

off the edge of the world.

Published in Staple, Winter 2000

out in the field

The deputation is in the forest,

assembling tripods on the even ground,

dangling microphones from the tallest trees.

They are making good time.

Soon they will reach the interior,

unfurl their sealskin umbrellas

and turn to shake hands with one another,

the skin on their fingers drier than documents

in a dead letter office.

Published in Ambit, Spring 2000

Pomegranate Park

We set up H.Q. in the potting shed,

laid our carpet on the bowling green,

then spent the day honing our repertoire

and polishing our buttons till they outshone the sun.

At dusk, we put on our smoking jackets

and took on challengers from the territories.

Their tactics were transparent,

our victory unquestionable.

At midnight, our kites cut down their flags

while the Labradors got drunk at our expense

and the first consignment arrived from the coast,

filling the air with the sound of the sea.

Published in Ambit, Spring 2000

the alarum is raised

In the Temple of the Four Winds,

a pedestal is empty.

The footmen scour the grounds at midnight,

silk stockings rumpled, periwigs askew.

They wade through the shadows

on both sides of the ha-ha,

crawl in and out of the peacock house,

clamber up and down the soapstone obelisk,

thrash the bulrushes beside the lake,

pace the length of the mile long hedge,

draw lots to determine

who will unlock the mausoleum,

search everywhere except the walled garden

where the phosphorescent roses grow

and marigold petals strew the lawn

like tattered scraps of flame,

where the arbour is occupied and nothing moves

save the spectral carp in the dark green pond

that rise to the surface now and then

to nose through the clouds and sniff the moon.

Published in Ambit, Spring 2000

the jeweller

Smelted starlight

silver on his lips.

His eyes are emeralds

to wear against his skin,

sparkling

as he wraps me in velvet,

molten rubies

clotting on my tongue.

Published in Iota, Spring 2000

the wanderer’s entourage

They follow him around from town to town

serenading him with home made guitars,

taking turns to carry his luggage.

No-one knows what is in the boxes.

During the day, they pound the streets,

putting on performances for the populace,

setting up mirrors in the main thoroughfares,

strewing the pavements with burning envelopes.

In the evening, he rewards them with card tricks,

or by plucking eggs from behind their ears,

or by inviting them, one at a time,

to gaze into his eyes the colour of brick dust,

unbutton his starched white shirt and touch

the purple tattoo that is his heart.

Published in Ambit, Spring 2000