Softest leather, the colour of horse chestnuts
brass studs at the wrists, almost invisible stitching


lined with fine wool. I remembered the smell -
leather, of course, and tobacco, and Old Spice.


And how I took them once, and never asked
and lost them somewhere. I was careless 


in the way some young men are. And so I lied and
told myself I didn’t care. I didn’t even like the man.


Some of which is true.

The screws were kept in a rectangular tin
green and gold, with the word ‘screws’
scratched into the lid, with a screw.


They had their own smell -
iron and steel, a smattering of rust
and old Gold Flake tobacco.


.................



Cars, when they went wrong
were always ‘bastards’.
Nuts, that wouldn’t free from bolts
were ‘bloody-swines.’


.................


Inside our Grundig Radiogram
Johnny Cash, dark voiced and darkly dressed 
obsessed with prison, heroin and God.

Something’s not happening.
There should be mayhem 
an explosion of feathers
blood everywhere.


There should be ninja aeronautics
and flying daggers.


He should already be gone.

You may feel giddy, but will probably 
have been drinking.


There may be moments when you think
you’re right-back-there. 


They won’t last.


You will soon find yourself feeling 
either too old r too young.


And there will be too much laughter. 

At some point you will realise it’s fake.
Then you will want to leave. 


You will smile and wave and promise things.
You will never follow through.

It is a warm night
my daughter sleeps 
above her covers
one arm extended, forefinger raised

she looks like she is flying
or pointing 
at something far away
that only she can see

Wooden clogs do not fly gracefully:
there’s too much drag, which means they 
tumble through the air, losing
speed exponentially
to clatter the backs 
of closing doors
if you time 
it right.


Wet dishcloths, on the other hand
can take you by surprise.




 

Today we left the path
away from numbered signs
telling us the facts
about flora and fauna
followed a narrow track
that narrowed further
then disappeared
stumbled, through 
birch and alder, caught
on briar and dog rose
twisting free, like children 
not quite lost, laughing
pushing through to sunlight
breathing differently.

On days when he is stronger, we conjure spirits 
taking our time, finding the right words.


Antelope shimmer through haze. He tries to name them
but his eyes are not good and they are too far away.


There is a house with deep verandahs, a tired garden, 
and a tin roof that sings in the sun.


When the rains come and dirt roads turn to mud
the garden greens and blooms.

Each dawn, the sky, filled with sunbirds.

The splash of outdoor swimmers
a steady murmur rising and falling
and laughter 
and sunburned children shrieking.
a warm breeze carries scents of
cut grass and cigarettes
Summer music ghosts
through cheap transistor radios
and somewhere close, springboards 
thwack and shudder
at the Deep End
where fathers push their sons






 

In ghost ponds
in sediments and silts


galaxies of daphnia
centuries of seeds


dream of light
playing through water


a little warmth 
some good air


anything but this.