Monthly Archives: July 2013

Mrs Reynard

fox 1

You get used to it,
the carnage,
the ruptured bodies
of the small and the not-so-small,
waiting to be steam-rolled
into the tarmac.

The children used to cry at the rabbits;
innards glistening, torn fur
spilling scarlet ribbons
onto adamantine grey,
but even tender hearts
become anaesthetised
to the horrors of the hedgerows.

Strange then
that the fox should jar me,
so serenely intact; no visible marks,
no metal tears or twisted entrails
as if he has lain down,
in his exquisite, toffee tailcoat,
exhausted from the coop
or chasing a moonlit hare,

cleverly positioning himself
in the middle of the lane,
to avoid having the breath
and the guts tyre-squashed
out of his body, as slick blacks
pass on either side.

I drive on, the day unfolds.
I work, eat, talk,
mostly at a distance;
life underwater.

I am not here.

I am there, always;
on the unforgiving surface,
lying cold in the road,
burrowing my desperate need
into his unbroken fur,
what little warmth is left
from his small, ruined body.



Filed under Free Verse, Poetry

The Glassblowers


The last time
was in the en-suite bathroom;
a wretched, accidental collision
in full view of the purple counterpane
and the torn loneliness of the antique bed.

The damp-freckled mirror bore witness
to frantic, tear-drenched kisses
as hands traced half-clothed contours
and fingers mapped crevices
that had lain untouched for months.

Fumbling in the heat of our howling,
in the suffocating sand of our gulping sobs,
we scrambled, trying desperately
to grasp the absolute death
of all that we knew.

Cradled in that granite womb;
out of the grief of our blown-glass past
and the furnace of an uncertain future
we traced the ancient shapes
of everything we were about to lose.


Filed under Free Verse, Poetry