In this Issue - Poetry
Where the river bends I’ve made my home
Sauntering quotidian on the towpath
From Hammersmith Bridge, clad in green and gold
To Barnes Bridge, steel-grey-painted;
The colour of the water beneath.
When light strikes the point of reflection
everything falls into place:
you and I are no more
there is only one space...
I should have kept it –
the tongue I grew up with,
the language of my mother
and her mother before her...
Memory is a desert, she takes us
to the dust of construction sites, a broken trail of
bricks and Banksies, hiding on the corner wall....
The woodpecker’s catechism, doctrinal, drilling the house,
is the discordance between thinking and thought,
is the candelabra of your hand, there, effacing thought,
is the clock’s cluck-clucking: What is the chief end of man?
The fossil air stiffens into breeze, into heat, folds light
over itself in waves, impossible to trace without smearing
the instruments with agency. Particularising whatever will be.
I can imagine the look on her face now
filled with fright as something clutches her
from somewhere out of nowhere, catching
in her throat, just as you enter her, the look
on your face printed in her eye. In there, in that eye,
you will see my face, my ghost, glaring back....