Or rather the ostrich, like the crocodile, swallows hard stones such as quartz or granite which jostle in the gizzard to assist the slow work of digestion. Such was the work required to mill a wide diet of New Zealand vegetation that the enormous moas went miles in search of the right stones which can
Working from hammock in Mexico, Watching how far centavos go, The beer is cheap, tequila strong, Here you can sleep and all day long. Hola to holidays in the sun! Don’t want to do it – doesn’t get done. From sunset strip to sunrise glow History runs deep in Mexico. Sipping a cola, eating ice-cream,
I close the door to his roomwhich had stayed propped openthroughout his illness, and behind itfind a few of his things.His heavy brown shoes angledas if he’s just taken them off,jacket and cap hung on the peg,walking stick against the wall.Mechanically,as a bulldozer collapses a site,we’d removed from the wardrobestacks of folded clothes.But here, behind
Nearly sucking up a woodlouse in the vacuum cleaner, an unseen finger taps me on the head. Surely, it says, you have the time to find a bit of card or an old envelope and move this little fellow to the flower bed? Plucked from the wall, it rolls into a ball and waves its
I looked through the window and I saw a sunny day. I say sunny day, but the thing about sun is how it casts shadows. It draws the shape of the house across the patio, and what this shape is is a ghost house, here, creeping its way across these slabs, as the day lengthens,
I do not take you to be my husband or my fiancé, or even now my friend. I do not wish to have or to hold your head at the toilet’s rim. Nor keep you at arm’s length when you were other-him. I’ve had you better and the worst. I’ve certainly had you richer. As
Islands, illusions,our dark wrecking spell,five twisted pins at St Warna’s Well. Islands, illusionsin a Bryher of mist,Bishop Rock Lighthouse serpent-kissed. Islands, illusionsfrom East to West Porth,seas without God, skies without north. Islands, illusionsnear this world’s edge,storm petrels circle the Tearing Ledge. Islands, illusionson lost sailors’ lips,the Dogs of Scilly devour their ships.
I was writing my doll’s name on the back of her neck when Mummy caught fire — a noisy distraction. She was wearing a loose blue flowered smock (an old maternity smock, I now deduce, from her pregnancy with my sister four years earlier, being used as an overall, not to waste it); the hem
When we found them under the tree there were twenty-two men all dressed in white, packed in two boxes of rosewood, between ancient and brittle layers of yellow paper. We set them out in classic style, carrying their rigid bodies up and down, up and down, until the light began to fail; one motionless fielder
These mornings when he’s not rota’d on picket, he spends the shift he would’ve spent in darkness in the spare room, sawing, painting, making a doll’s house. His wife, in secret moments, sews bits and bobs of fabric into dolls’ dresses: twists of foil are jewellery, pages of old colouring books wallpaper. It’s for their
after Harry South’s closing theme to ‘The Sweeney’ It blows through a scrapyard,through unstable towersof Capris, Granadas, Transit vans … through yellow teeth and fingers,a clouded bar’s persiflagethen out onto the street to lift comb-overs, flares,wide lapels, facial hair –a balm for sore ribs, black eyes. In search of a decade’s soulit winds through a
We struggle to remember what we came up for – spaghetti or air – who our neighbour said was coming to fix what, the conifer we’ve just planted. We watch too much Netflix, play word games online when we should be asleep. We cast off covers, cast them on again, force ourselves to rest upright
You did London early, at nineteen: the basement room, the geriatric nursing, cinema queues, modish fall-apart dresses, and marriage at Stoke Newington Registry Office, Spring 1955, on the rebound. Marrying was what we did in those days. And soon enough you were back in Wellington with your eye-shadow and your Edith Piaf records buying kitchen
Dull day. The Black Mountains in mist. The houses crawl up the lower slopes like rising damp. I wander the town devoid of purpose. November’s fallen leaves siliconed to the wet Monmouth Road. At five the streets eerily vacated as if there’s a curfew. Everything already now so last year. Weatherspoon’s beerhall empty but for
Spring cartwheels down these country lanes, knocks fern and dock for six as frost exhumes with petrol fumes tar potholes leaves can’t fix, while bluebells smoke as downpours choke torrentially inside each rainswept flume of beech or broom chiffchaff and finch survive. Here pimpernel bedraggle a grass verge where, windblown, dog violets snitch through hedge
What luck that Sweatenham’shad been flattened, its concrete baseremaining: the perfect spotto sit the works caravan on blocksand our paint shop beside it. Ern and Jud deftly navigatedthe Land Rover around dead tyres,mangled iron, sprouting steel rods,backing it into positionin full view of the Newcastle Street shops and the windows above them,all day traffic to
Thinking about those nights Kindles a strange felicity: Drinking by candlelight In a pub off the Earls Court Road In the time of the Three Day Week, Because there was no electricity. Certainly we were political. Nothing, though, seemed as serious— Intimate and critical – As the play our
Last night my wife and I went to Asda, And – among other things – spent eight pence on a Bag for Life. The bag is guaranteed to last us a lifetime. Every day we will look fondly at the bag, And recall that evening, All those years ago, When we held hands and strolled
For Rebecca and Hamish Along the dale to the wedding church the fields are fluffy with meadowsweet – ditches and verges foaming with it. Perhaps a tanker has overturned, and shed its load of banana milkshake? No, that’s not it; something more honeyed, more artificially confected; a familiar ingredient from your pantry at
I arrived in Lhasa by train in freezing weather. From what I’d heard, my father would be there. Outside the gaping entrance all was dark,snow falling quietly like owls’ feathers. In the bustling concourse, doubling as a market, just as I’d feared, my errant father was nowhere to be seen. I knew he was dead