SMALL DAYS

28th May 2020

To pinpoint the time in which this is written,

there are two main themes occupying

the commentators of the day. One concerns

the worldwide pandemic from which few are

entirely immune, the other the bizarre antics

and garblings of the self-centred thin-skinned

bully who struts around under the banner

'Most Powerful Man in the World'.

But as these are being covered internationally

by countless pens and voices, I'll just say

that the sky is blue today, and cloudless,

and birds are in the trees, along with new

leaves, and I have taken his breakfast

to the nameless cat that lives in the outhouse

that until two years ago was the make-do

studio in which I made abstract paintings.

But Nameless isn't there. Not there and could

be anywhere. He'll probably wander back later,

though, to munch his kibbles and sip from

his bowl of fresh water before strolling off again.

There. That's better. Little things in small days.

So much sweeter than adding further wordage

to bigger, more worrying subjects.plate.

_________________________

LAMBING SHEDS

Early March, the farm next door.

We watched a ewe drop her firstborn

on the ground. The little one lay confused,

eyes closed, as if wondering what

was going on. The mother began to lick

her infant with her brisk black tongue,

all over, every part. Little one's eyes

began to open. In a minute, still licked,

he tried to stand, and failed. He tried

again, and again, leg by leg, falling

each time, until he was up at last,

if shaky, still being licked all over, bullied

a little. Then he was taken away, roughly

stretched, this way, that, while a symbol

was painted on him. Mark of ownership.

There were many pens, many sheep, new

lambs. In one, a ewe without a lamb made

a racket that sounded much like grief –

'Hers was stillborn; she'll be culled now.'

Culled. Killed. For failing to deliver a life.

I could no longer enjoy the new lambs

finding their feet, stretching their legs,

bleating. Could only hear the heartfelt

wails of the unsuccessful ewe.

The one doomed for not delivering.

By the following day she was no more.

Only the memory remains.

And these lines, which feel so empty.

_________________________

ON THE JETTY (2020)

Directly out from the jetty,

between ten o'clock and two,

you'll find clear ground,

or so it says here. My memory

is less specific. For me,

from this sitpoint, the grey

stone jetty is all windy nights

and dark surrounds, a world enclosed,

wind-buffeted, rain-specked.

The small fishing craft, well secured

on the stoniest part of the beach,

the sky, cloud-rich, sneaking sly hints

of other worlds than ours as the wind

ruffled coats and hair, and hands

were clasped, then unclasped,

our selected enclosure tightening

with a wince, a laugh, a shiver.

Too soon by far to think ahead,

imagine, dread. Too early to not-plan,

too out-of-phase for negative

speculation. All seemed possible

yet nothing was foreseen. The cruelty

of one, which would force undreamt-of

transitions, in the course of which,

inside of which, anything might happen,

was not so much as hinted at.

The wind, the night wind, whipping

around us, cutting into us, jostled

the beach-boats but gave nothing away;

nothing beyond unease interspersed

with the bright pin-holes of other worlds.

Unimagined worlds, on the jetty.

_________________________

SHUFFLE

The odd minute here and there,

the occasional quiet moment

when the mind dances

between sunlit shafts of memory,

barely aware that you're

in someone else's world.

But then a throat is cleared,

a bird flaps by outside,

a door slams distantly,

and the here-and-now returns,

and a sigh is suppressed,

a hand turns a page,

and the minute and the moment

join all the rest,

shuffling for space.