LIGHT LUNCH
These are words dancing on a page
Portraying a catalogue of Hodgkin’s paintings
Under a blue moon a transparent screen
Of colour, a garden of delight.
A face I almost know along these streams of light
Rippling patios and sculptured daffodils
A light lunch, life on a plate.
A lonely spaced interior occupied by a sphere
a framed sky beside a garden of everyday lines
In a world of art in this cafeteria of people
feeding on jealousy, gossip and hope.
Sculpted dreams in a letter of mooned memory,
Humanised movement in a hot country
Swimming in the bay of Naples
Water-falled foliage of misting vibrancy.
In a honeymoon suite, waking in another world
Beside a small good thing that transports a wreath
A glass vase and me reflected from a valley
Looking down at a riveria or an Indian sky,fruit,rain.
A monsooned tangent in tangiers, a splash of paris or italy
a lovers leap in the dark, a water-falled snapshot.
A painting reflecting these words in stilled life
Rain from a bedroom window in the evening in Scotland.
A Blur Of Light
The branches replicate
the landscape, car lights
on the motorway.
Mans DNA is
but a snapshot
a kaleidoscope.
through the glare
of autumn sun
I see red and green
and orange and blue
spotlights on this road.
THE LIGHT ON THE STONES
I retrace your final journey now in a blue car,
Not black, alone on the motorway.
Passing the Maze prison the stench of my engine
Overheating is like gunpowder, spent shells,
Lingering, your dream of Irish freedom.
Not black, alone on the motorway.
Passing the Maze prison the stench of my engine
Overheating is like gunpowder, spent shells,
Lingering, your dream of Irish freedom.
I climbed the mountain graveyard
Above the violent divided the city,
Above the peace-line that stood between us
In the living -room.
Above the violent divided the city,
Above the peace-line that stood between us
In the living -room.
Your plot all weeds,
And wild grass cries out for order.
The fallen wooden cross bears no name;
But you are there. Like a sculptor
With clay I reach inward, my hands
As delicate as salmon wings riding
The white water, struggling
The strong currents of grief.
And wild grass cries out for order.
The fallen wooden cross bears no name;
But you are there. Like a sculptor
With clay I reach inward, my hands
As delicate as salmon wings riding
The white water, struggling
The strong currents of grief.
I brush the soiled tears from your eyes
And you wake in me, swimming
And glistening in mine. My hands
Shape the clay moulding our wounded past,
Emerging in the light on the stones.
And you wake in me, swimming
And glistening in mine. My hands
Shape the clay moulding our wounded past,
Emerging in the light on the stones.
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