I  

GIRLS, AND BOY  

Early sun dissolves the mist;  

bottles and chairs  

disrupt paths,   

paving, lawns;  

deer keep a cautious distance  

in parkland trees.  

On high-backed wicker chairs  

five girls talk, smoke;  

contractors dismantle  

tents, lights;  

fruit strung on green wire  

along boughs.  

At a table nearby

a boy sits alone,

playing cards.

II

GIRL, AND BOYS

Her hair is blonde,

expensive,

cut no ordinary way. 

Her feet rest on a footstool

on the grass.

The dress she wears

has small seed pearls

sewn on silk. 

the arm that almost touches him - 

does not move.

She watches,

Looking above his eyes.

She watches.

He runs his fingers

through his hair,

plays with the knot

of his white bow tie;

notes the girls who talk,

notes the girl in silk;

notes the boy

playing cards ,

nearby.

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III

BOYS

I watch you,

as I watch myself,

and know 

the breech

that undercuts your poise;

the face, disfigured

by its rebounding image,

clouded by what standard parts

it can't extract.

The picture blurs,

but does not hide

the other guests departing

in their pairs.

IV

ME, YOU, HER

The band is striking jazz tunes;

last tunes;

light breaks

through the marquee,

draws to shape

gothic buildings,

trees beyond the park

lit by the lights

of early motorists.

The moon shrivels

in the opening sky,

the blind spot grows:

and sorrow, snared;

the heart, too,

a castle without walls

an accomplice,

in search of an assailant

You meet my glance,

and stretch your arm to her,

fall in behind the pair

that goes ahead

and the one that follows on.

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V

BOY, BOY

Behind the door

the recent world

is lost, 

and left behind. 

This is your territory, I know:

these trees, 

this house, 

this lane,

cleared by the departing taxi;

but you have not arrived here

like this before;

you have watched me,

but my voice is alien –

you have not seen eyes like mine;

not fingers, jaw, nape. 

I am not an old friend,

I am the visitor

you have always known;

the stranger within,

betraying with a kiss,

the kiss that waits.

VI

MOONWALKER

There is water on the moon;

and though I know

- sitting, almost close,

watching the sun slide

between solider trees –

though I know

- almost touching;

the cigarette's blue smoke

rising untasted –

though I know

what we are here for

by all we do not say;

though I know

there is water on the moon;

though I know

the names of Roman senators,

the parts of trees,

the rules of games,

I do not know 

what we make room for

here and now

below the tall trees of the wood.

VII

CHILD

​

These gestures know the force

behind lost words;

articulate what has closed

with a homing cry,

as if the way my fingers

hold your head

alone could touch

the anguish and the joy,

the child behind

the adult's face

whose eyes close in relief.

You sleep beside me

nervous to each move. 

Does the arm that holds me

knows who it holds? 

Am I your mother,

brother, lover?

Who holds you

when you sleep alone,

who holds you?

VIII

SOLOIST

If I were not so tired

I would spend the night

watching you sleep;

watching your fingers

tighten and relax;

your eyelids tremble;

open,

to what the morning will eclipse.

If I could trust myself

to care a little less,

I would wake you,

play this aching game

by patient rules;

but though the night

is pitched so quiet

you sing

and sing in me.

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IX

MIGRANT

Because I have waited;

because I have waited so long;

because I have waited

beside old friends 

and even strangers,

and those grown tired of waiting;

because of all of this,

all this and more; 

because I have waited,

keeping you for a long journey,

I have not learnt

how to read the stars

I have not learnt 

the migrant paths

I have not learnt 

which tracks

lead across the frontier.

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