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across the table
the children exchange
arguments and kisses
there’s a face you’d leave home for
he says of the waitress
pulling her mink tighter
fur buttons too fat
for their holes
bored by the long break in play
they throw snowballs at the spectators
teeth gritted
then the song that gets everyone
up on the floor
dazzled by the glitter ball
over silent fields
a famished wasp
charges its ring tone
on the last bramble
that waterdrop sparkling web
invisible? anything but
ignoring the blind spot
and pulling out, the passenger’s
right foot twitches
smoke, wrote Brecht, while you drive —
if it goes out, something’s wrong
in late summer
closing the door of her mother’s house
for the last time
a flat palm
smashes open the garlic
an angled lemon
outshines
the chopping board
green tea and Qigong on the long haul
prevent jet lag
in the quiet
the monk offers the traveller
a blow-job
after the ceremony
there’s nothing to do but eat
early potatoes
already sprouting
but there’s lead in the soil
salt ‘n’ sauce? both hesitate
unsure of the others’ tastes
forgetting herself
a mother on day release
cuts up her lover’s meat
after breakfast they send out
for more oysters
whether with or without
our noticing
the sun’s almost gone
the night was made by Provost MacTavish
and his good lady
boxes crammed
with bread, vegetables
and cans of mixed fruit salad
floating amongst it all
a big dollop of vanilla
the Lismore ferry —
vehicles, and fattened calves
heading for market
stuff your bloody correctness
you’ll lick arse if you have to
sixteen shirts every week
they don’t iron themselves
you know
flat white drifts
crunched in footprints
dog shit melts
a hole
in fresh snow
his paintings emptied
till they were all sky
two stars
tell us the night is cleared
for darkness
some theorists forget
that thinking is a bodily function
he throws the beach ball higher
so she’s forced
to stretch
the lines of labour
written on her belly
in the loft
the last train to Partick
runs all night
fumbling through his euros
at the Skye Bridge toll
at Sligachan we trace
the first and last of the snow
on Sgurr nan Gillean
Meg asks can she see Sorley’s room
the window that looked to the west
now the weather’s warmer
she shortens her skirts
for Blythswood Square
after the demo paper everywhere —
another man’s job
hosing down the corpses
pale human flesh —
Che, Marat, Christ
I am the lamp
which guides me
even when you can’t see
beyond your nose
follow the smell of smoke
lighting cigarettes in the rain
hunched together
the callgirl’s nickname
for Henri Toulouse-Lautrec
was teapot
reading the leaves
marriage, briefly
an out of tune piper
lamenting the dead
at the gates
marked Private
she can just see bluebells
Spring Bank Holiday
everyone hits the road
signposted Solitude
too many cooks
spoil the pancake race
in the evening
nodding off on the sofa
startled by the phone
father in Australia
talks mostly of cricket
dew freezes the outback
radar is ranging
the moon
commuter’s day —
leave before sunrise return after dark
casting
catch nothing
casting
The Waterfall of the Maiden
icy in June
damp patches on her blouse
a mother’s surprise
supply on demand
we’ve come to expect
food, fuel, gratified desire
the leaves come off
a glut of green
tomato chutney
mulch under wellies
kicked into the porch
the cats hope to impress us
with small overnight deaths
left on the mat
from the oak a candle
falls down and out
we’ve brought a nightlight
for the little one’s
next visit
leave the frogspawn alone
you’ll get all sticky
the tadpole succumbs
to a carp —
so much for evolution
picking the samphire
at low tide
a selkie you say?
already wondering
how she’ll taste
her past lovers lie
heavily on his side of the bed
a torrid night
in the attic the moon
slips through the panes
sweating up The Rest and Be Thankful
wishing for a flat tyre
let down once too often
from now on the failures
will be beheaded
clear-cutting the rainforest
the whole tribe gets whooping-cough
from under their shrouds
feet of men, feet of women
feet of children
at the school nativity
the angel kicks the donkey
tempers rising
Ted slaps
Sylvia back
even in the silly season
poets don’t make the headlines
you miss one week
and the recycling box
takes over the hallway
pungent wood smoke from next door
they say he saves the ash
shrivelled little figs
that never made it
to the table
swirling a late cup of milky tea
what she’d like is sunshine
wedding day breakfast
coffee with whisky
then whisky
eggs over easy
on rye
like sprinkled pepper
these moles on your back
or stars
after weeks of deciding
they named her Cassiopeia
now she sets ablaze
the horizon
of his eightieth year
new clothes for Easter
dancing in the street
all mouth this spring
lots of flounce
but nowt left hanging
allotments flourish
all the way to the summit.
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