Space Dancing

In twelve hours our world

turns its back on the moon

And we go from tide to tide

In a day we pirouette

and face the same way again
Together, tethered by our love
.

The moon takes a month to go around us

Watching as we turn

And in a year we’ve danced around the sun

So now we are back again

The same space

We were here a year ago
.

Every day with you I wake

Another day to celebrate

All that

 The Open Window

When I was a student writing essays

on molluscs in the dead of night

A candle under my chair for heat

Sometimes I would open the skylight

To let the fog of my mind escape

Eventually I would crawl out too

Scramble up the rooftiles

And sit with my back to the chimney stack

Looking down on the street

And up at the stars

Karaoke

He always came home at 12, she said

Every night, she said

But, no problem –

She wasn’t a typical Japanese wife

She pointed up from her ears

Like horns –

No problem, she laughs

And rattles her whisky on the rocks

 And picks the next track

They were married 40 years, she said

Summer Pudding

Full moon sinking behind Tanzawa ridge

A great pink cheese mottled with blue-veined seas

Now rising in Africa, where the setting sun

Is rising here – the pink light glows

On snowy Fuji’s peak, and slowly seeps

Down her dreamy white slopes

Like warm elderberry wine

Oozing through a summer pudding

Art for farts sake

In Japan on a train

Salary men are drooling

Flicking thumbing pages where

Skinny schoolgirls in bikinis

Titillate their reptile brains

The mental manga masturbators

Grin like sharks in pain

Fisterra - The End of the World

I once drove to the end of the world

Pulled up in my landrover at the cliff top

Two curious kittens for company

Above Fisterra – ‘World’s End’ in ancient Gallego –

The fishing village crouched in underneath

Hiding from Atlantic storms in this

The wettest wind-blown corner of the continent

But this still summer night

The wind and rain have died

I make a fire – dried heather cracks and flares

The lamb chops sizzle and spit

The kittens tiptoe toward the light

Wrinkling their expectant noses

From the crow’s nest dark, I look down

Like a Peeping Tom, and listen to clear voices

Neighbours parting with a good night

Roosting mothers calling their brood in to sleep

And I ponder a life in this snug outpost

With no need for another lost outsider

Shipwrecked on the Costa da Morte

A lighthouse keeper longing and unsure

Whether and what he’s seeking

Maybe running from himself –

Too far out to commute to Compostela

My half-baked Castillian Spanish of little use

In a community glued together by a Celtic tongue –

That resonates and tugs

They say, almost within living memory

Fishermen launched from this port communed at sea

With men home-based in Quimper, Cork, the Isles of Scilly

Fisterra – for centuries the end of the known world

And still the end for the pilgrims

The 500 mile Camino de Santiago

In unbroken use for thirteen hundred years –

From here they still throw

Their worn out boots into the setting Sun –

They say it’s not the journey there that teaches you

It’s the journey home again.

United States

Israel
Canada
The Czechs
(Václav Havel - peace be with you)
The Marshall Islands
Micronesia
Nauru
Palau
Panama
Squirm
in your blood-soaked boots

Beachcombing again

I went down the beach for a poem, 
and brought back the sound of the sea

Today, midweek, the beach is breathing with relief

The last storm’s passed, the next not yet conceived 

A trill of dancing sandpipers flit along the water’s edge

Half-hearted wavelets sigh - benign if not good-natured.

Black kite wheel and soar, scouring for a meal 

They’ll snatch from a child’s hand -

A black crow pokes a fish carcass 

And from behind the Emperor’s garden wall

(keeping us out, and him in) 

A content chainsaw buzzes, while a blackbird sings.

Over the red paint peeling bridge and a black shag scuttles ­  

Scampering from the river mouth he’d drifted in 

His tattered Mac flapping as his webbed feet slap and patter

Neck craning over the water, to his sentry mates on the rocks, 

White with guano icing powder like Christmas puds

They eye him askance – you can almost hear them tut 

Drying their wings, stretched

Like bird black angels of the east

Above, two hawkish would-be lovers loop

In the clear blue sky, with the green blue sea below

And a great black back swoops.

Slow white paper plane sailing boats fleck the line

Where the far side of the bay meets

The blue-grey back-drop of Fuji-san

Forever rising, clad in her colossal snowy cloak.

A black twin-winged helicopter chops and thuds

From the base behind the woods

Menacingly improbable like a dark side bumblebee

Heading no-one knows,

A steady beeline through the immense sea sweep 

No doubt up to no good

Two aged ojisan sit in broken plastic chairs

And point out to the younger ones

Clambering into their white boats

With their red and yellow nets

Dried out by the warm November sun 

What will they bring back as it sets?

A flock of squealing school kids 

Pours onto the soft green grass

All bright-greenly capped

Their teachers like shepherds without a dog

Hunched in the sunlit breeze, a few young mums 

Compare their toddlers toddling

One helps her little'uns stick bits of driftwood beach bamboo

Loosely poked in the soft sand

A kind of ring fence, a corral against the sea -

I’ll be back soon to see 

What’s left of their defences

Beachcombing

Beachcombing on a Sunday Morning in Japan, November, 2012

Today I found a monkey skull
Washed up on the beach

Rolled in the black sand surf
With the sparkling stones

And wrenched up seaweed tossed
With whispering shells 

Fresh, not yet picked pristine,
And young, the pinkish teeth

Not yet stained or chipped
I picked it up, like a doll’s head

A girl’s breast, cupped in my palm,
Golf ball gapes where eyes recently

Flickered and darted at birds and butterflies
And rippling leaves -

I wonder if she fell
Was she washed to a river and drowned?

What did she see as she slipped
Teetering out on her own?

Her mother’s flashed alarm?
Too late, gone, out of reach?

I often wander this beach
Looking for shells and driftwood,
Rounded stones and beach glass
Plastic toy figures lost
Sanded over by children’s feet,

And translucent coloured lighters dropped or thrown
 – bird bones –

But the head dome of a fellow primate
Whose non-eyes feign surprise or open wonder
Held here in my hand, rescued
From the seething washback waves,

The obscure deep,
Pulses a primal button marked care for me,
For this needy trusting child

I wonder what they make of me, the locals
Always there, always alone,
Strolling
What’s he doing now? What’s he got?
– chotto hen - weird gaijin -
I pass a cluster of them, or us
The 30-something son, the local wife,
The white-haired grand father
Come to see his offspring sprung
This side of the planet,
Clearly his first time
The brand-new thick cords,
The pocketed hands, slightly raised chin,
The air of nonchalant bewilderment 

Not quite concealed, trying to take it in,
To accept, to understand why
His son is rooting in such a foreign land

And there an office Dad plays beach ball
With his nippers,
His wife sun-dozing 
And there a pair of Tokyo escapees
Earnestly boil a kettle for tea

Wrapped up like sherpas
Huddled by their flapping tent 

And everywhere the shapely wetsuits,
Cheerfully come to surf,
Bobbing half in hope and fear
On their expectant boards,
Like a rodeo, gazing out to sea -

Today the waves are crashing in
Bright sunshine spray

Roaring, racing, long-travelled sea miles
Night and day, for this,

their last climactic glory
- then broken, defeated
Spent by grains of sand -

My beach – I know her well –
Where her beaten rocks are lurking
Her suffering curves
Every day she’s little changed 
Typhoon-shifted, fresh detritus strewn -
And though we’ve spun through the universe
She’s still here, the same
Her breathing heartbeat soothes me
While I’m lost in the newness of now

In the need to simply be
with the wind and the waves
And the monkey skull

Back home, in minutes, and the TV screen is full

Of more dead in Palestine, more dead in Kabul

Pieces

I spent my life in pieces -
Thank you
For glueing me back together