Calon

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Inspired by Owen Sheers’ book Calon: A Journey to the Heart of Welsh Rugby
 
 

strange muscle
this carmine closed fist
vital percussionist
 

hollow metronome
caged in bleached-bone
xylophone
 

strong, pear-like pump
contracts
and yet succumbs
 

to the quick tear
the soft bruise
the bladed scrape
 

patched and pinned
slip-stitched
to an aching chest
 

untimely unrest
of arrhythmic pulse
steadying once more
 

to beat
++++beat
+++++++beat
 
 

Pine

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

As the earth peels away
from the sun, we hurriedly
pack up the day,
 

stow it away in old tea chests,
hermetically sealed,
lest the light should escape
 

to further flay our already
wind-whipped eyes.
We sit on containers
 

let our full weight bear down
on blonde wood while sunbeams
screech and claw at locked lids,
 

dry carcasses splintering
in the quickening wrath
of incarcerated heat.
 
 

Lull

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

It is here
in these quiet moments
that we find it;
 

when we have nailed
hurricanes to the floor
and collected monsoons
in thimbles,
 

as we lay,
chests heaving,
in the debris-strewn dust,
 

waiting
for a subtle shift,
a tender tremor
that will lift us to our feet
 

and have us leaning
into the wind, learning
to trust the breeze
once more.
 
 

Ash Wednesday

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

A single beat, a breath
since I held the unclothed
flame to the wick;
 

brief crackle of blue sulphur
before the waxy melt yielded
to cool, clear glass.
 

Standing by the stove,
you lit a cigarette,
apologising,
 

as you removed the tiny
tealight and replaced it
with crumbling ash.
 

Tonight,
hundreds of miles away,
I flickered amid female faces,
 

circled by the tinkle
of long-stemmed
wine glasses,
 

washed in the amber
swirl of familiar laughter,
and no-one
 

lit a cigarette.
 
 

While you were sleeping

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

I wrote this
while you were sleeping;
 

while your head imprinted
a vanilla linen memory
and the chintz eiderdown
rose and fell with the cadence
of your lungs,
 

while the fingers of my
left hand caressed
your open palm,
our warm legs tangling
between rumpled sheets,
 

while slumber
smoothed the furrows
of your day’s toil,
scattering the remnants
to the brisk March winds,
 

while my name tumbled sleepy
from your lips and the black dog
bayed at the waning moon,
knowing he would find
no quarter at our door.
 
 

Palm Sunday

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Sit bones settle uneasy
on ground glass and razor shells.
Eyes fix on unexpected horizon
 

kinked and wavering in the heat
of a new reality; the once sharp line
between blue and bluer now bunched
 

and caffled in blurred uncertainty.
Parallel gazes, oblivious, until hands
scrabble soft in deep, white sand,
 

fingers and thumbs sifting possibilities,
seeking equilibrium – finding it
in the upturned palm of another.
 
 

Waiting for Escher

 

you.
 

not yet mine
nor I yours.
 

possibilities
 

somersaulting
beneath vaulted ache.
 

congruent triangles
 

tumbling
wireless.
 

spangling
 

in stained glass
shafts.
 

tiles tilt
 

awaiting
tessellation.
 
 

Symmetry, Linguistics and the Art of Surrender

 

Relinquishing the day,
I watch your tongue
chase vowels, curl
 

around consonants, your
lips spilling daisy chains
on my bare shoulders.
 

I tilt my head, mirroring
your movements, inhale
the faint creases around
 

your mouth, allowing
myself to unravel as
you unfold in a smile.
 
 

Debellatio

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Don’t expect me to be light when I
carry your shadows; dusky wraiths
soldered to viscous insides.
 

Don’t expect me to be white when my
canvas is black; scarlet ridged,
and spattered with Clogau gold.
 

Don’t expect me to be right when I am
left with wrongs; tattered and scraped
to my battle-knifed knees.
 

Don’t expect me to fight when I have
already lost; ensigns hauled,
flag long surrendered.
 
 

Postcards from the Shore

 
 

Just as the wave
lifts itself
from the vast body
to assume new shapes
 

so we rise
to become what life
requires of us.
 

When the wind
drops
losing its fight
with gravity
 

the restoring force
returns us
to ourselves.