Genius

I cannot believe this report

of my being a genius,

a chat up line from a flirtatious gent.

That I am, at times a good writer,

I will perhaps acknowledge.

However my greatest accolade

in life’s eternal struggle against entropy,

is, and I quote,

‘Your oven is immaculate’.

 First Cut

I trundled its petrol-perfumed rusty body out of the shed,

left the smells of must and cobwebs, rolled out onto the spring lawn.

The first cut of the year.

I took a deep breath, reached down, grasped the plastic handle, pulled.

At first there was the expected resistance of piston moving,

then, like a dream step, nothing.

Now it stands sentinel to a forgotten sward,

surrounded by a meadow of knee-high yellow buttercups

and purple cuckoo flowers.

 Announcement

Her faced glowed when she told us,

I hugged her first, awkwardly, breast to breast,

then him, standing on my tip-toes

arms around his solid shoulders.

I hadn’t expected the jolt of desire.

At the ceremony, like many before me,

the tears trickled down my cheeks.

So this is why the mother of the bride cries.

I had always supposed it was to do with loss,

But had not understood what kind.

 Out Late

I listen for the familiar thunk

of the front door closing.

Wait for the minor seismographic twitches

that signify the homecoming. 

I pretend I’m not waiting,

am engrossed in a fascinating book

about a lesser-known African tribe,

but have read the same sentence fifty times.

My mind is not on the intricacies of bead-work

but is full of vivid images of car-crashes,

abductions, buildings inexplicably exploding,

how I will be called to the morgue.

Just as I reach for the phone

to call the police, fire brigade, coast-guard,

the door slams. I cross myself.

‘Nice evening?’ ‘Alright’

‘Glad you’re home safely.’ ‘Whatever.’

 

 Running 

Low sun patchworks through glowing leaves,

webs and filaments play across the path

wrap my arms and legs like a lover’s breath.

Heart pounding a syncopated rhythm

with my feet on the path, the stones, the earth.

Damp sweat on skin returns the sun’s heat,

head empty, free of thought, I only know

the continuous movement of light and shade.

 Laundry Archaeology

I trace her movements

by the contours of the hills

that rise from the beige plains

of the bathroom carpet.

Archaeologist-like I piece together

the past by gently removing

the present, layer by layer

separating darks and lights.

 Lake Locke

Ripples like concentric silver quilting 

on deep olive silk

interfere to make distorted diamonds,

centre on two wet heads – blonde and brown.

The rest of the lake is mirror-still,

trees on the opposite bank

double-trunked and canopied.

A deep-tanned hand 

reaches out of the water

and waves.

I think of mermaids.