Blue washing lines
Mary, mother of Jesus, sings of her grief at the loss of her child
Midnight meadow-verge wild flowers
Blue washing lines
Mary, mother of Jesus, sings of her grief at the loss of her child
Midnight meadow-verge wild flowers
‘The events of my life would fill more than a novel. It would take an epic, the Iliad and the Odyssey, and a Homer to tell my story … I won’t recount it today, I don’t want to sadden you. I have fallen into an abyss. I live in a world so curious, so strange. Of the dream that was my life, this is the nightmare.’ (Camille Claudel to Eugène Blot| Montdevergues Asylum)
‘Camille Claudel: A Life,’ Odile Ayral-Clause—A life, romanticised in print and in film; this work of scholarship dispels some of the myths that have been woven around Claudel’s life, not least around her relationship with Auguste Rodin; it offers a more considered picture of her achievements as a major sculptor in the Paris art world of the late-nineteenth-century.
At night he dreamt| the smell of apples heaped on barges floating down the river| rough studies sleeping under some cloth.
‘He was unwrapped by her breathing; by the rise and fall of her eyelids.’ (Eugène Blot)
Littlemill, Fortnightly, Ardlach, Coulmony, Ferness …| Flo – requiescat
‘Now I tie my pyjamas loosely round me, and lie under this thin sheet afloat in the shallow light which is like a film of water drawn over my eyes by a wave.’
A hard and remote milky blue ceiling of sky over the field; cold tears standing behind my eyes.
It’s dark but the sky is coming up, peach grey, worm, and alizarin. And as far as Longforgan, and then nothing; a slow-moving cord of haar from floor to ceiling, a thick wall of water seeping deep into the cup of the hills, and it’s cold, and heavy and grey, while the smell of the fields is cold and heavy and astringent; humid and clean. Earth. Earth; stubble and a rotting mustard crop on one side of the lane, gouged ground on the other; wet, heavy earth, turned tidal into deep black welts. A blackbird sings over everything. (Wednesday 15 February)
‘But I will stretch my toes so that they touch the rail at the end of the bed; I will assure myself, touching the rail, of something hard. Now I cannot sink; cannot altogether fall through the thin sheet now. Now I spread my body on this frail mattress and hang suspended. I am above the earth now. I am no longer upright, to be knocked against and damaged.’
Now for the wet and the cloud. The field all-silent, as if offered from another world. Only birds and a bitter cold wind – against the wars and famines, the expulsions and forced migrations—A heartless and perfect beauty: the snowdrops ruby red; soft; silky to the touch, their green stems like veins outside a body; snowdrops on the graves; the field orange and tan; and the pure disembodied silence—In my life—nothing urgent, nothing pressing; only this soft sky above the village, all painted, and looking very near; running deer tracks in Kirkton Wood. Reading Carson – a woodpecker at the sardine tins. (Wednesday 22 February)
‘Let me pull myself out of these waters. But they heap themselves on me; they sweep me between their great shoulders; I am turned; I am tumbled; I am stretched, among these long lights, these long waves, these endless paths, with people pursuing, pursuing.’
Doris moves east from Ireland – a great storm; wet snow on the garden; slabs of thick white slush; air cleanliness, not a soap and water one. Oddly enough I woke up thinking of D.’s redhead hair; Pre-Raphaelites; the cramped room in Ballyfermot and the small farm in Kilkenny—the overflow pipe continues its metronomic dripping onto the shed roof; dot … dot … dot … Last night I made a start on an essay – in mind since October last year – with the line: ‘This essay is written – facing the wall – in the cramped tunnel beyond these dots; in the darkness that followed their creation.’ (The dots in question are The Six Red Dots found at the furthermost reaches of the Lascaux caves in France.) Now straight unbroken sleet. Trees red spotted with rowanberries – only just visible in the grey downpour. (Thursday 23 February)
What I give is fallen.
Spurs – visions of truth yield nothing but by occasion – the sempiternal façade of continuity to our selves; makes much of each flat and holy shadow, as of all our shadows.
Umber – raw sienna, orange, but it’s tubes of ‘dead pharaoh’ – ‘Mummy brown,’ that make the ploughed field; the voices of children like birds.
‘The day is stark and stiff as a linen shroud. But it will soften; it will warm. At this hour, this still early hour, I think I am the field, I am the barn, I am the trees; mine are the flocks of birds, and this young hare who leaps, at the last moment when I step almost on him. Mine is heron that stretches its vast wings lazily; and the cow that creaks as it pushes one foot before another munching; and the wild, swooping swallow; and the faint red in the sky, and the green when the red fades; the silence and the bell; the call of the man fetching cart-horses from the fields—all are mine.’
‘All that lies over the water in the brain of that ridiculous little man. Why ridiculous? Because none of it fits. Encloses no reality. Death & war & darkness representing nothing that any human being from the Pork butcher to the Prime Minister cares one straw about. Not liberty, not life … merely a housemaids dream. And we woke from that dream & have the Cenotaph to remind us of the fruits.’ (Monday 5 September 1938)
Roy Batty| back in the real world| Pygmalion| Vapour trails
‘Month by month things are losing their hardness; even my body now lets the light through; my spine is soft like wax near the flame of a candle … I think sometimes (I am not twenty yet) I am not a woman, but the light that falls on this gate, on this ground. I am the seasons, I think sometimes, January, May, November; the mud, the mist, the dawn.’
‘L. is doing the rhododendrons …’ (Monday 24 March 1941)
Grey day. Overslept, and not well. Read Brockington – on Bell. Set the fire; read over the fire; stayed in all day except to fill the pale with coal – dirty-yellow pale, black coal; straight unbroken rain; clay-coloured sky, the colour of ash over the field. The pillowcase a shade of blue that reminded me of Franz Marc’s Large Blue Horses – a welcome thought on a featureless, grey and wintery day, Bell’s paintings the exception. (Sunday 26 February)
The wasp byke, close up and out of focus—like the screen of a confessional; Moorish window architecture; Fellini’s 8 1/2; Abraham’s Motional—bits of desiccated wasp, near powder; brushed to the floor with a bookmark in the way that a cat pushes a pen or a clothes peg over the edge of a table. There have been no cumulus for a long time, only clear blue sky or grey impenetrable stratus … sky a dirty shade of wall pitted with a mould, pin holed to another universe where a painter pricks a charcoal cartoon for a late settlement of piety having received confirmation of Saint Helena’s vision of the true cross; Courbet’s Red Apples. (Monday 27 February)
‘When you are silent you are again beautiful. I shall never have anything but natural happiness. It will almost content me. I shall go to bed tired. I shall lie like a field bearing crops in rotation; in the summer heat will dance over me; in the winter I shall be cracked with the cold. But heat and cold will follow each other naturally without my willing or unwilling.’
March| Viridian, viridian, green, green, green
March| Silver, silver, green, viridian, turquoise …
‘Sharp stripes of shadow lay on the grass, and the dew dancing on the tips of the flowers and leaves made the garden like a mosaic of single sparks not yet formed into one whole. The birds, whose breasts were speckled canary and rose, now sang a strain or two together, wildly, like skaters rollicking arm-in-arm, and were suddenly silent, breaking asunder.’
‘In the garden where the trees stood thick over flowerbeds, ponds, and greenhouses the birds sang in the hot sunshine, each alone. One sang under the bedroom window; another on the topmost twig of the lilac bush; another on the edge of the wall. Each sang stridently, with passion, with vehemence, as if to let the song burst out of it, no matter if it shattered the song of another bird with harsh discord.’
‘The birds sang passionate songs addressed to one ear only and then stopped. Bubbling and chuckling they carried little bits of straw and twig to the dark knots in the higher branches of the trees. Gilt and purpled they perched in the garden where cones of laburnum and purple shook down gold and lilac, for now at midday the garden was all blossom and profusion and even the tunnels under the plants were green and purple and tawny as the sun beat through the red petal, or the broad yellow petal, or was barred by some thickly furred green stalk.’
March| Green, silver, silver, green, yellow, green
April| Turquoise, silver, turquoise, turquoise, green, turquoise
April| Silver, yellow, green, green, green, silver
May| Green, turquoise, silver, silver, turquoise, silver
May| Yellow, turquoise, green, green, silver, green
January| Turquoise, silver, green, silver, silver, turquoise
January| Silver, silver, turquoise, turquoise, silver, turquoise
January| Green, green, silver, silver, turquoise, turquoise, silver, turquoise, yellow
January| Green, green, green, green
February| Silver, turquoise, turquoise, silver, green, yellow
February| Green, green, silver, green, turquoise, silver, green …
‘In Clara’s hand the flowers smell of iron and grass. The same smell as the grass behind the wire factory after a rain.’ (Herta Müller)
‘The Groats were the last family on the island, and had thirteen children. Under the decaying stairs, I find coat pegs marked with their names: Bessie, Isobel, Alice, Eva, Ethel …’ (Amy Liptrot)
Aggie. Scotland Kissed
Soap washed out your dreams of borrow-pits,|invisible fingers drumming on wet sand, your|childs heart raced|after hoops of rubble, burned the sky down with it.|Some things were not there: your favourite|
place, watching|from the window; your lunch box made of smoke and air;| and the pedestrian, over your shoulder, who did not|exist, alone – relative to the last king of Scotland.
The banks of carriageway were high and overgrown,|running your dreams of bitter grazing on|the verge of light along Thirteen and St. Peter;|in decline, your night career of sleep played and,|in the morning, eyed a city mad with fever where|you chanced to be among houses and lawns burning| in feasts, the mating pit in their mangled hand – Kissed.
Ahmed. Fata Morgana
Light repeats itself travelling| shipwrecked; wall and charcoal| and you, Lord, on its horizon|
cradling a head of bison.| A childs footprint is six red dots.| Your body is a child swimming.| Light answers itself.
‘Wraps x 2 Bread Tiger loaf x 3 Wedges x 2 Frie’s x 1 Mozzarella Balls x 4 Greek yoghurt x 1 mixed peppers x 1 O Rings x 1 Tomatoes Punnet x 1 Fairy liquid x 1’ —There is a shop in Perth, in the pale of the town. A sign above the door spells out what you can buy: ‘VHS Tapes, Stornoway Black Pudding, Tattoos.’
Dorcas. A State of Blood
For Kurt Vonnegut (1922-2007) it was the allied bombing of the supposedly ‘open’ city of Dresden during World War II, ‘… the largest massacre in European history, by the way. And so what?’ For my parent’s generation, US military action in Vietnam, and Pol Pot’s genocidal Khmer Rouge in Cambodia will likely be at the top of the list. For my generation, born in the 1960’s, the Gulf War (1991 – present), ‘the longest humanitarian airlift in history’ during the conflict in Bosnia and Herzegovina (1992 – 1996), the Kosovo war (1999 – present), the war in Afghanistan (2001 – present), the second Gulf War (2003 – present) and the civil war in Syria (2011 – present) are all likely to be indelibly etched into our minds.
Until recently Europe has enjoyed a relatively long period of peaceful co-existence, while not always covertly flexing its consumerist ambitions and murderous tendencies in other, far away parts of the world. Some believe that the consequences of this are finally ‘coming home’; the supposedly distant world of ‘over there’ not so hard to get to and from as the political elites once thought. Perhaps it was just down to the small coterie of sadistic teachers I had at secondary school, perhaps it was my age, fear, lack of confidence and anxiety at the world around me (a mostly cruel, brutalising and unforgiving military school), but there was one other name that remains indexically linked to this malign human, largely male, tendency towards brutality, torture and extreme acts of individual and institutional violence: Idi Amin, ‘the butcher of Uganda,’ who came to power in a military coup in 1971 during a steady and ruthless campaign through the ranks of the King’s African Rifles’ (Britain’s colonial African troops.) I’m not going to go through the catalogue of human rights abuses Amin should have been charged with, instead, if you’re interested, I would urge you to read Henry Kyembe’s account of Amin’s rule in, ‘A State of Blood.’ Amin died in a hospital in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia in 2003 where he had lived in exile after ten years in Libya. He was never brought to trial for gross abuse of human rights—The Saudi ruling elite and the British Government should be held to account for this.
I hadn’t thought about much of any of this or particularly followed news of post-Amin Uganda since he fled the country in 1979, until very recently that is. That is, until my stepdaughter intended to travel to Uganda on an adventure trip organised by her school in July of this year.
She is sixteen, and knows nothing of Amin’s post-colonial dictatorship. Knows nothing about the war in the north of the country with the Lord’s Resistance Army, and her teachers have, as far as I’m aware, never brought the subjects up. Should they have done? Should I say something?
Despite recent fraudulent Presidential elections, the on-going war in the north of the country with the LRA, the current refugee crisis in South Sudan and the sometimes brutal suppression of Gay rights, freedom of speech, the freedom to express political opinion, etc., Uganda still appears to be trying to re-brand itself internationally as a modern, thriving East African society ready to do business – promoting in particular environmental tourism, and outdoor adventure opportunities for those who can afford it. That is, it’s pretty much like any other place in the world. But it wouldn’t take much for it to be pushed back into its darker past. That’s the feeling I have when I think about what’s both already happened and is currently going on in the region. Uganda is a landlocked country bordered to the east by Kenya, in the north by South Sudan, to the west by the Democratic Republic of Congo, to the southwest by Rwanda, and in the south by Tanzania. It is the second largest landlocked population in the world (after Ethiopia) and that means a lot of mouths to feed. And revolutions start, as Brecht reminds us, not because of politics but because citizens do not have enough to eat and drink.
Fifty-five bottle caps are used to make this souvenir. It was bought from an elderly woman at a market stall in the Ugandan city of Jinja and given to me as a birthday gift, and I’ve fallen under its spell. (A massacre in 1972 of troops in Jinja barracks during a purge of the Ugandan army of men of Acholi and Lango ethnicity was followed by the disappearance of over a further 5000 soldiers and twice as many civilians by the end of the year. No one knows what happened to them or there whereabouts.) Each candy-pop coloured cap is from a 330ml bottle of Fanta, Coca Cola or Stoney and I imagine each freezing cold bottle in someone’s hand, and the bolt of ice and fizz as they tip it into their mouth; quenching their thirst as they stand, ecstatic, on a dusty, bone-dry city street; the sun splitting everything.As Vonnegut writes in his introduction to ‘Mother Night,’ the moral of the story he is about to tell us is a very simple one: ‘We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.’
This particular giraffe has eighteen and a quarter litres of fizzy juice in its veins. No bad thing, I think. Perhaps screaming that you have something other than blood running in your arteries (your mothers tears, engine oil, black ink, laundry liquid …) may be your only chance, if the boys with the knives and automatic weapons kick in the door.
Did I tell my stepdaughter about Amin and Uganda in the 70’s before she left on her trip? No. I decided that on humanities current form she would have enough to deal with in the decades ahead. Fear, because that is what such a tale would create, is pernicious, and absolutely no amount of reassurance would set her young, understandably anxious mind to rest, as she prepared to travel to east Africa, and away from home, family and friends for the first time in her life. I’d talk to her about it afterwards, when she was home.
Joe. This is the end …
The first line of Lachrimae Verae – the first of seven sonnets that make up the poem, Lachrimae or Seven tears figured in seven passionate Pavans – reads: ‘Crucified Lord, you swim upon your cross / and never move.’ Published in 1978 by Geoffrey Hill, it is one of the great opening lines in English poetry – complete; unadorned – unforgettable. The voice goes on to say: ‘Sometimes in dreams of hell / the body moves but moves to no avail / and is at one with that eternal loss.’ Our nightmare – my own; these lines, spoken by Colonel Walter E. Kurtz.
Where are we in relation to the figure of Christ in the image Hill has made in our mind’s eye. Drowned – underneath, looking up. On our knees, at his feet. Stood over the scene, looking down? Wherever we choose to be – in time, in space; in our imaginations and our emotions – Christ remains still, we move; we are alive, for the moment. In one of the painting studios in Edinburgh College of Art in the early 1980’s I came across David Mach’s sculpture for the first time. (During the Edinburgh Festival and Fringe, the college was often used as a venue for contemporary art.) My recollection of the work is a little hazy – it was thirty years ago – but I remember it consisted of a large collection of clear glass milk bottles, arranged in a rectangle, some of which contained quantities of a dark, grey-blue dye – creating the image of a shark, in water, motionless. While searching for a picture of this I found a more recent work by Mach in an exhibition called ‘Post Pop: East Meets West’ (Saatchi Gallery, 2015). It’s title, Undressed, uses the same method as the shark but with red dye, and depicts a female figure lying on her back, arms and legs spread wide; the image, created in a collection of 1666 clear glass bottles of HP Sauce. It’s a striking and chilling image. (Perhaps seeing the shark some thirty years ago gives me a better sense of what it might feel like to be stood over this splayed, crucified figure, despite having seen it only in photographs.) I say, ‘crucified,’ but I’m not sure if that was in Mach’s mind. The figure is ‘arranged,’ helpless and vulnerable taking the shape of a saltire cross; held down by a violent design; she does not represent the bloody deformed mess of the barrel bomb, more the summary execution. And yet the title at first seems a bit perfunctory, artful, and perhaps even harmless: Undressed. The use of HP sauce bottles – icon of Englishness; ‘By Appointment to Her Majesty the Queen’ – further discolours the water, as does their number, which places us in London in the year of the Great Fire. And what is this works affect on our understanding of voyeurism? Do we stand and look at a representation of our seemingly insatiable desire for public ‘execution’ in a culture that is mercilessly confrontational, reductive and condescending to those to whom it purports to want a response from? Mach’s work relies heavily on contingent circumstance. It is usually made – using magazines, postcards, tyres, bricks, coat hangers … the stuff of the everyday – to court the spectacular, but it is in the quieter reaches of these less spectacular works that I think he touches the nerve.
I’ll append another image here, one perhaps as memorable as the picture of Christ swimming on the cross. I wrote above of the atrocities committed by Idi Amin in East Africa in the 1970’s. European history has its genocides too. In a circuitous discussion with a friend over coffee recently (taking in amongst other topics the investigation into the disappearance of Madeleine McCann) my friend talked to me about a nephew, N., a forensic anthropologist who has been working in Spain on the exhumation of mass graves from the era of the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939). N. directs the archaeology, to assist in identifying the skeletal remains of victims for living relatives who do not know where their husbands, grandparents … their loved ones are buried, and who are left ‘not knowing.’ (The poet and playwright, Federico Garcia Lorca, is one of the ‘known’ disappeared although his body has never been found, but recent estimates suggest that there is in the region of 2000 mass graves which may hold the remains of 150,000 victims of execution.) Many of these graves are by roadsides, victim’s shot into shallow ditches. Others, in fields.
N.’s description of what he saw in this one grave is vivid. Each skeleton had a bottle around its neck, held on with a bit of string; and inside each bottle, there was a scrap of paper with the persons name written on it – milk bottles, olive oil bottles; bottles of all shapes, colours and sizes – the dead must have been covered over with soil by people who knew them; by people who believed that one day, their loved ones would search for this grave, and find it.
‘Catalog of Horrors / Descriptions of Natural disaster / Lists of miracles in the divine corridor / Catalog of fish in the divine canal / Catalog of objects in the room / List of things in the sacred river’ (Jim Morrison)
Mona. List —for a Sculpture
‘Lotto card| 15/40 diesel oil| wash powder| milk| face wipes| bottle water.’
Nelly. A Lot Older
The only moment we were alone, with things – pictures, objects, words – in the mirror of the history of art: the privilege of two forms of silence.
Patel. ‘Mistah Kurtz – he dead.’
‘We are the hollow men / We are the stuffed men / Leaning together / Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! / Our dried voices, when / We whisper together / Are quiet and meaningless / As wind in dry grass / Or rats’ feet over broken glass / In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour, / Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed / With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom / Remember us – if at all – not as lost / Violent souls, but only / As the hollow men / The stuffed men.’ (T.S. Eliot)
Winnie. Looks On In Wonder
Finally I wonder at the motivation that brought the giraffe into being. What prompted or necessitated its creation. Why was it made. Was it made out of a profound sense of wonder at the natural world and the creatures that inhabit it. Was it made, say, for the same reason as the inscribed images of bison, horses, and buffalo were made on walls – deep inside the earth – in the Chauvet cave; the caves of Lascaux. Or is it a piece of tourist exotica, an ‘objet-souvenir’ made only to sell to foreign visitors? From here, in rural Perthshire, I can only speculate, while I like to imagine that whoever took the time to make this small figurine, did so for all of these reasons, and more besides.
To Bee, for whom today is difficult.
A knight with a clock; the swings tied up, swings too small for him. Mist rolling over the fields, a little of the veil, the colour of suicide bathwater: Turkish delight; glitter on the performance, a carmine red fleck of laundry; and flowers, on the breath of the cull. Paris by night. City devotions.
The ground tips back, held down by small lumpish shapes. Waiting is the whole story, movement restricted to a thin skirt of light that comes from a village at the foot of the hill. Small streaks of white oil correct small failures of the imagination. Grey fills the sky, which is low and flat without a patch of blue, and a liquid coldness spreads over indistinct forms and things; the village, outwith the vantage point, an idea equal in value to the picture itself.
Of nothing Linz she thought more Munich, Berlin. Tap tap of an overflow pipe on the sky. An old woman collects frosted berries from wild bushes at the back of her garden, pale, delicately freckled fingers stained pink with things that never mattered the first time around. (The sound of sleet on the car was made elsewhere. The silence she made was made elsewhere. She waited where she wished, shared everything as the engine turned over to run the heater. Circumstances that could not have come about without this white theatre under a hard overhead light: A primitive farmyard. A young peasant woman with bare feet. Only a few paths, deeply marked or furrowed led through the snow-covered field before her eyes, closed.) A railway station in deep snow, Freiburg. A betrayal, only Rosa pimpinellifolia in the garden. A station of the cross, a triptych of Black Mountain gateaux. A deconsecrated church and four-leafed window of fading luck, Kirchzarten. Asparagus, white hollandaise sauce. A waste pipe, grey boiling mud. New potatoes, potatoes. A village, a primary school playground. A village, what blossoms of clematis! Infidelity, just killing. A village, tentacles of swastika. A village—there is no village.
Looking Over Largo Bay To Methil From The High Water Spring At Ruddons Point—Listening To A Village Buried In A Pit Bing
Clearances still; in demand of rock blackness, no starry work was made of such blue-flashing light hounding wheat as night’s grey ran it the length of a far off childline.
A field. An enhanced octagonal (made by Rose, Charlotte Anne, Theresa and Lucy facing inwards around a big pink thistle) with heads gentle rubbing together in wild grey, in a butterglen meadow of daisy, chamomile, corn poppy and tall green grass, a warm breeze keeping the flies away.
Press ‘shuffle’ and it should work.
I’m trying, but my hoof’s too big.
Mine’s a bit smaller and I’ve done it before. Let me have a shot.
I’ll leave you girls to it. I don’t fancy a playlist of ‘underachieving kak’. I’m going down to the riverbank where Foxglove will read poems about buttercups and wet sage in five minutes — Later.
‘Mrs Adams said a wis a croass. How come? Whit’s she talkin’ aboot? She said tae ma Mammy ‘Mrs McPherson Clare is your cross. We all have crosses to bear’. / Ah’m no a cross in am no a bear either. She disnae like me.’ (Grace Cleary)
To Whom It May Concern,
There is black mould on the sky, re-born dolls in the pharmaceutical labs, porcelain cups for apostles of ‘the God-given occupation’, counselling for the melancholic and ‘pinko hippies’. The Christian miracle eye tracking is torn on a line of grey bodies, on thousands of stacks of bodies. Dirty pollen coats our needles; pitiless bag closing, and an engorged media prostitutes privacy and our right to worship. Under siege the sky is sallow and the weather like grit; umbilical soil in a gravitational well. The mining settlements plunder the aisles of ‘Cold Meat, frozen Carrot, Small Pies, Tissues, yeast, more tortilla wraps, hair dye …’ adrift in the fetid hum on verges of dual carriageway (Genocide, tin-oxide, egg white on silk pillowcase, 2016. Private Collection.) And tears and weeping as far as the eye can see. Were it not for your listening eyes, had you not a delicate sense, when would we have acted? But I shall forget this dream; through midnight, I’ll disappear. Dear, hear this my …
Green in Cottown. The fields smell sharp, of rhubarb, grey slip on the road, but nothing grows, even in the rains of Heaven.
Neukünstler! My name is on the door. White plastic belt, cardboard, aluminium foil, silver tape, 20mm starch packing sheets, wire, and a canvas backpack, five cardboard boxes (24 pack eco laundry tablet’s), silver tape, aluminium foil, wire—Fake devices, ‘made by hand Monsieur.’
On the far horizon, the whole| conversation, hand cut blind| in the gilded space closer to| the margin of you on Cothill.
Movement of perfections shadow,| darkness outwith your corridor, tell me,| tell me, emptiness.| I rise out of my sleep.
And the grey cherry tree| turning in its wash of rain,| a nest in splendid-malnutrition| tonight I shall ask it in.
My love waited, may have died| in the wax of shadow, patrolling| the feast of leaves.| I met my death
coming the other way. Turning| a quiet song, I cried| and you passed by without a sound.| A resurrection?
Nothing that you say; I dwell.| No measure of fire; I dwell.| Keeping shtum on the road,| consent where paradox is fear.
My heart denied, I couldn’t see myself;| I left early into the field| with the nothing that you say| weighing past all weight
in the interior of smear and bravery,| prayers could not dent my darkness.| I go to my neighbour with nothing to eat,| the blackbird the chaffinch.
This love will be the end.| You have all the space| in my mind, the manners of pain,| a quiet carriage you say.
And you my spent heart, dwell| true, after truth, in love| never depleted by use or display| a moment and forever.