Winter

The day arrives skin-cold and dog damp,
the sun wilts brown and overripe,
filthy soot clouds coat the sky.
Temperatures frost, icing over walls
and footpaths, covering thick layers of earth,
blanketing wood, harvested for a blazing fire.
Hills curve and disappear as the
afternoon arrives cat-black,
the arctic moon grows round and full,
white smoke dances out of chimneys.

Light Fades

Afternoon light curls
autumn sun over hillsides,
lightly tiptoeing past greying trees,
swaying through forests
blanketing over tall oaks,
creeping in like the customary stray
uninvited at the door. Then vanishes,
leaving us lost and alone in our memories.

Once

The sky darkened,
and the stars gathered
as we sifted through dirt and fragments,
carefully uncovering a man
quiet and skeletal,
fragile and peat,
fingers sharp as little arrows,
and thin curled toes.
With a skull shaped like the moon.

We knelt, picking our minds
for information
wondering who this man was
and where he hunted food.
Travelling with no roads
or maps as guides
only the stars.

Setting

The sun sets in the purple bay,
spilling light over masts,
creeping into panelled cabins
of old rotting boats, illuminating
charts and compasses, highlighting
old worn pipes and dog-eared photographs
of women who once kept seafarers
company on cold stormy nights.

Body

Body The crisp morning air numbs the wide ugly-flat countryside. Roughly ploughed furrows of earth cover the landscape. Down by a windy stretch of road a collection of spindly trees screen a clutter of cowsheds and a grey two-storey house. The house door is open and it is dark and cavernous inside. In the narrow corridor large muddy footprints paint patterns and travel down the worn flowery carpet stopping outside an open door. Through the door is a small, mouldy-smelling room. A thick layer of dirt veils daylight from entering through the window, below a limescale sink holds a dirty pot submerged in water. Next to the sink a bed of bricks prop up a food-incrusted cooker while cabinets and drawers with crooked doors sit on either side. A table stands by the wall while a large-sized man with rolls of fat forming around his neck and waistline slouches over a cereal bowl. His hair is matted, dark and greasy, and his face tired. Above a black-and-white photograph hangs over him, enclosed in a stocky, protective frame. The figure is of a slim a man wearing a cap. The man does not finish his breakfast instead he gets up from the table and makes his way into the muck-filled air. Outside the cold stings. The man walks briskly over the untidy yard covered in farm equipment and mountains of turf and makes his way towards an open shed in which a tractor with a plough is parked. Sunlight illuminates the tractor bonnet, spills out over the rusty grates and travels into the windowless driver’s box. He climbs high up into the cold icebox and turns the key in the ignition. The engine rattles. He drives over the cobbled yard passing cows crowding behind a fence and enters the flat fields. From his vantage point he can inspect the land. Tidy uniformed hedgerows, with the odd gorse bush, skirt the edges of the ploughed fields. Gripping the wheel with his butcher-like hands he drives the tractor over the rough furrows of earth and stops. The plough, with its blade fixed in its frame, cuts into the weight of the earth and prepares the ground for the planting of seeds. Then the blade strikes something. The stubborn earth fights. The tractor rattles. He slides out of the tractor and marches over to investigate. Standing above the trouble spot he looks down and not more than a foot below are dark, bony limbs peeking out, preserved and barely visible. The face is shrunken in and skeletal, the skull nests in the worn fibres of a lined cap. The jacket is in tatters and the trousers well gnawed. Reaching into his trouser pocket he pulls out a battered mobile and with his muddy fingers and dirt clogged nails he dials a number. “I want to report a body I found in my field.” On the other end an incoherent, monotone voice replies while sky-grey stacks of cloud appear. He concentrates on the little drizzles of rain watching drops silhouette his fleece, and then he turns his attention to the phone call– a shaky bad reception one. He gives his name, information and address. He makes out: “We will send someone out to you shortly.” Hanging up he slides the phone back into his pocket, takes a deep breath of air and climbs back into the tractor. He rests his face in his hands and dozes off. A siren wakes him and he spots a vehicle, in thick black clouds, flashing lights in the distance. The vehicle pulls up next to the tractor. The cut of the guard is anything but reassuring. He is sweat-soaked, wears a cap and busts out of his wrinkled-blue uniform. It is a struggle to get out of the car. After numerous attempts he becomes unstuck only to discover the field presents another obstacle – mud. His movements are slow and laboured, his breathing heavy. Up in the tractor the man points. The guard’s footsteps play catch up with the other as they follow the direction of the finger and the intricate line of the gesture. When he arrives at the body, he hovers, and reaches for his radio, which he carries by his side. He messes about with the controls while above the sky blackens and raindrops increase in regularity and size. “When do you think I could get back to work?” The radio crackles as the guard studies the dirt, the layers, the slight differences of colour, the mixture of clay and topsoil. “I’m afraid you won’t be doing any work today – from the look of things.” The guard offers the man a lift. He gets in and gives directions for the duration of the journey over the fields. All the while sweat oozes from the guard, the smell fills up the car. In an attempt to avoid suffocation the man rolls down the window but this does not help as the thick smell trails down his nostrils and enters his lungs. When the car arrives at the mouth of his house the man exits the sweatbox with the smell cloaking his clothes. The sitting room is dark. A trickle of sunlight filters through the dirty net curtains illuminating layers of dust on the open marble fireplace. Above, a large copper-frame mirror hugs the flowery-white wallpaper while inside a tall glass cabinet an assortment of china rests beside a black-and-white photograph of man wearing a cap. A little smile lights the lips of the figure in the photograph and he stands up to his knees in a bog resting on a shovel used for cutting turf. Below the cabinet a whiskey bottle sits on a coffee table. The man takes a seat on a worn leather settee while the figure in the uniform sits opposite in a small wicker chair. There is no customary cup of tea, scone or biscuit only a slice of uneasy silence. “It is too early to make assumptions but we will follow every line of inquiry. We will get to the bottom of this.” The guard fishes out a black leather-bound notebook from his jacket pocket followed by a biro and starts to write. He stares into the man’s eyes. “It must have been difficult dealing with your father’s disappearance at such a young age.” “Difficult?” Silence follows. There is mention of legal proceedings as sweat churns round the room. “The area is not to be disturbed.” Upstairs the man sits on a single bed with his boots still on nursing a bottle of whiskey. Next to the bed is a table, on top is: a tin, a clay pipe and a box of matches. He puts the bottle down, on the floor by the bed, and presses his thumb hard on the tin, revealing little curls of tobacco. The scent of chestnuts swirl about the room as he stuffs the pipe with tobacco. Licking his lips he puts the clay pipe in his mouth and strikes a match. Light waltzes around the walls and across the lines of his face and then he lights his pipe, puffing white clouds around the room. The velvet curtains dance as he sinks into a horizontal position. It is a dangerous occupation, lying down and smoking, but he is well accustomed to such a routine. He positions the pipe upright on the bed, a little signal of smoke streams upwards as he fishes blindly for the whiskey. After a few attempts of snatching nothing but air he grabs hold of the bottle, opens it and draws the prize to his mouth. He lets the warm taste of oak whirl about in his mouth, and then releases the fiery stream down his throat and into his belly. In clever little intervals he puffs his pipe and gulps his drink. He views dusk through the swaying curtains, spotting flickering lights in the muddy-grey sky. The outline of the moon hints silver. He is outside, now, swaying over the yard, clasping the cold, thin neck of the whiskey bottle. Taking large regular swigs he watches his white breath in the dark. He uses the light of the moon to guide him through the sheds and out into the open fields. A cold wind tears at him as he makes his way towards the approaching shadowy hedges. He makes it to the spot where the body rests. Large pools of moonlight entrench the soil, illuminating the thin, bony skeletal features. Crouching down to get a better look he takes a swig for courage and then with an air of apprehension he touches its cheekbone. He gets accustomed to the cold rubbery flesh and then his fingers travel up to its cap, tracing the face, following the line of the jaw. He takes another swig while above the night sky swarms with white, forensic stars. He digs his hand into the jacket pocket of the skeleton, pulling out a thick-leathery bit of paper and with the help of the moon he makes out ghost-like faces. He runs his fingers over the sides of the paper, the front and back and then turns his attention back to the petrified body. He studies ground worms feasting inside the yawning smorgasbord mouth. A centipede scutters out of a deep eye cavity and travels endlessly down the sinewy road-like legs. The photograph slips now out of his fingers, floating over the blade of the plough and out into the hedgerows. Little drops of sweat slide down his arms and dampen his sleeves as he takes another swig and starts to walk, first in little steps but then they quicken over the landscape. He makes no plans, nor will he follow a path or an intricate route by which his generations once followed. Taking one last look behind at his moonlit house he walks towards the large brooding horizon that streaks little wisps of light.

Happy Christmas!

Happy Christmas! I spend most days reading, writing and trying to learn an instrument. And I started playing badminton! Yess! I know my blog has been very quiet, it is difficult to write random thoughts these days. Books are nice! I hope you get a good book to read for christmas. Happy New Year too!

Burning

This forest fire ignites,
thick fumes of black.

A nest of ravens cry out
as high above
their mother watches
them burn.

Rain

Catching the forecast,
we watch the weather,
waiting for a sign
to ease our deja vu.

We hang our coats
posthumously on the door
the aspirations draining
minutely in droplets.

We bear our companion
constant on our sleeves,
deep in the compartment
of a shoe, in the fibres of
damp old cords.

If the weather could speak
over a loud "achoo!"
or above a raspy cough
it would talk in some
foreign tongue, inviting
a translator to interpret
the long lash, the gentle
downpour of rain.

Static

We speak in hushed tones
Not knowing
Whether to talk
Or keep quiet.


We stare at
The table
Set with plates
For the dead


And we fill our
Heads with nothing
But air
As we listen
To the radio
slowly spill static.