Burial
We buried his guns in the garden
a year after he’d been burnt
in his best jumper. Rifles
and a double-eyed shotgun,
sawn barrel, heavy cartridge, no licence.
A stock that lay cold against the heat
of his cheek, felt the misting of his breath.
A trigger that knew the quick kiss of his finger,
the death-flinch. Foxes, pigeons,
rabbits, rooks, scattered
in the ringing of my grandfather’s gun.
x
He shifts his weight forward, sinks a crow,
retakes his aim. Reopens his right eye
when a kite drifts through the slaughter,
like a ghost. Shivers in the wind.
He watches till it’s flown.
x
He shot at what he shouldn’t, pushed warm bodies
deep into warrens – seagulls, racing pigeons.
He licked his lips and tasted
tobacco and liquorice. I’ve seen
his blue eyes harrowing memories,
known the affectionate touch
of his neck-wringing hands.
But he knew there was a weight in death
heavier than the fall of red feathers.
x
We pick a spot by the ditch
by the dog bones, cat bones,
grass cuttings sodden and rotting,
a ditchful of water running cold and clear,
a passing witness. I sink
his spade in the soil, funereal.
We fill in where we’ve been, leave his violence
to the ground. My mother rolls a cigarette,
watches the circling kites
while I sow grass to hide our crime.
I dread to think, she says, then stops.
x
Venus in the Forest
Below the high hill
that splits the valley wind,
night opens in the elm grove,
the wild garlic breathing.
x
Old England once, so Hardy says
scorched to the chalk,
iron fires, funerals,
smoke rising in roots–
like ghost trees waving their pale limbs.
x
We’re building a den in the forest
rotten elm boughs, slim firs
come down with a crack.
When the fires in the village
Ignite, one by one,
there I’ll cup the last of the light
in my face for him to taste.
x
I’ll give my orphan body
to the suckling ground, like water.
A vast giving love
that swells new
every season.
x
After Equinox
When the ditches burst black water,
go splashing.
Fling the old songs skyward,
chase rabbits, break their necks,
flush rooks from their nests in the flue,
black smoke writhing on the wind
bending and beating.
x
Hang the rabbits out of reach
ready for gutting, sharpen your
kindest knife.
x
The dark beats the light underground.
Driven into the landscape, a mass burial,
sunk patient and cold beneath Silbury Hill.
x
Skin the bunny rabbits,
bake a pie.
x
The first acorn, kicked by a boot,
gone rolling down the road.
Chase it and keep it. A talisman
for the path ahead.
Make stone circles for the dead,
I let the living pass like rain.
x
Watch the slow green die to the bark –
strip the second blackberry harvest –
follow the kites as they surrender
to the turning wind like ribbons,
give up love, start fires, start walking,
up with the dawn,
waste no light.