What is History, Discuss?
History is and was and so is that patch
of pavement where one tiny leaf shape
is never wet no matter how much rain.
It’s in the shards of clay pipes on the banks
of the Thames and the salt-glaze fragments.
It’s in the loose change in my pocket
and the fact that there is never any
loose change in my pocket. It’s in the bits
and bobs, the fairy on the rock cake,
at the foot of our stairs. It’s t’ick
as a coddle and mild as milk.
There’s a king and queen and offspring
and they’re effing and blinding or not –
‘cause that’s common! It’s in the darkness,
the rose moon, a clear deep navy sky
and a box of Price’s candles to light
the longest street market in London
where we ply, plight and sing a bit.
It’s in the pain of home and the urge
to command that pain with real true facts.
It is what it is, although that’s contentious.
It’s a bumble bee, a Brussels sprout,
and sometimes, even, a brown-tail moth.
(From Whatsname Street: 2021: Smokestack Books)
The Mother in Law’s Nets
In the shadows and whoops of the last of the party
she slipped back indoors and took down the curtains,
brown with war and the filth of outside.
In the dim flicker of the hallway light, she filled
the sink with water and soap and dipped each
like it was made of the very best lace
and with each rinse her tears salted the water.
They fell silently at first but as the dirt ran out
and down the drain she could be heard,
by the neighbours, gently sobbing, and by the time
the nets were white again, howling, fit to burst,
you could even say she had.
(From Whatsname Street: 2021: Smokestack Books)
Rosa Mundi
Hic jacet in tumba, Rosa Mundi
petals blown, blown, Rosa Munda
Her silk weaves through soil, Rosa
to the tomb, the tomb, Rosa Mundi
Muddied lace, golden thread, Rosa
beneath an island of ice, Rosa Munda
In her well, in her bloom, Rosa
Her underwater grove, Rosa Mundi
Beech, holly and willow, Rosa
Guard her frozen jail, Rosa Munda
Hemlock, pine and yew, Rosa
sewn into her nightdress, Rosa Mundi
Hic jacet in tumba, Rosa Mundi
petals blown, blown, Rosa Munda
As a Foot Passenger On the Woolwich Ferry
after Rabelais
Sitting below deck in the cast iron holds –
sun beaming in from the west – horns calling out –
we hear – whispering voices – echoes – fog –
all overlapping each other.
Where do they come from – are they ferry ghosts –
voices of those transported to the other world –
is this a kind of Thames triangle where people go
and come to their own tempo?
No, says the master, these whispers are the frozen
voices of winter’s passengers – slowly defrosting
on summer’s breeze – listen – mah, mah, sh, op,
bh, kuh, ush, sh, oomm.
We try to catch hold of them – skidding as we go
trap some by the stairwell – in the broad part of the bow
one man catches ‘mah’ – wraps it in foil –
later, he lets it go.
Published in Finders of London (Enitharmon 2010)