[ai] sniper [ɪ] lid [ʌ/ ʊ] sunk [ɒ] rock [i:] leaf [əʊ] so [e/ eə:] step
[ɑ:] charred [ei] plagued [ɜː] burnt [ʊə/ u/ u:] moon [au] now [æ] and
[ɔː/ ɔɪ ] hoard
A Northern Hoard
And some in dreams assured were
of the Spirit that plagued us so
ROOTS
Leaf membranes lid the window. In the streetlamp's glow |
Your body's moonstruck
To drifted barrow, sunk glacial rock.
And
all
shifts
dreamily
as
you
keen
Far
off,
turning
from
the din
Of gunshot, siren and clucking gas
Out there beyond each curtained terrace
Where
the
fault
is opening.
The
touch
of
love,
Your
warmth
heaving
to
the first move,
Grows
helpless
in
our
old
Gomorrah.
We petrify or uproot now.
I'll
dream
it for
us
before
dawn
When
the pale
sniper
steps
down
And
I
approach
the shrub.
I've soaked by moonlight in tidal blood.
A mandrake, lodged human fork,
Earth sac, limb of the dark;
And
I wound
its
damp
smelly
loam
And
stop
my
ears
against
the scream.
2. NO MAN'S LAND
I deserted, shut out
their
wounds'
fierce
awning
those
palm
like
streaming
webs.
Must I crawl back now,
spirochete,
abroad
between
shred-hung
wire
and
thorn,
to
confront
my
smeared
doorstep
and
what
lumpy
dead?
Why do I unceasingly
arrive late to condone
infected sutures
and ill-knit bone?
3. STUMP
I
am
riding
to
plague
again.
Sometimes
under
a sooty
wash
From
the
grate
in
the
burnt-out
gable
I
see
the needy
in
a small
pow-wow.
What
do I
say
if
they
wheel
out
their
dead?
I'm
cauterized,
a
black
stump
of home.
4. N0 SANCTUARY
It's
Hallowe'en.
The turnip-man's
lopped
head
Blazes at us
through
split
bottle
glass
And fumes and swims up like a wrecker' lantern.
Death mask of harvest, mocker at All Souls
With
scorching
smells,
red
dog's
eyes
in
the night
-
We
ring
and stare
into
unhallowed
light.
5. TINDER
We
picked flints,
Pale
and dirt-veined,
So
small
finger
and thumb
Ached
around
them;
Cold
beads
of
history
and
home
We
fingered,
a cave-mouth
flame
Of leaf and stick
Trembling at the mind's wick.
We clicked stone on stone
That sparked a weak flame-pollen
And
failed,
our
knuckle
joints
Striking
as
often
as
the flints.
What did we know then
Of tinder, charred linen and iron,
Huddled at dusk in a ring,
Our fists shut, our hope shrunken?
What
could
strike
a blaze
From
our
dead
igneous
days?
Now
we
squat
on
cold
cinder,
Red-eyed,
after
the flames'
soft
thunder
And our thoughts settle like ash.
We face the tundra's whistling brush
With
new
history,
flint
and
iron,
Cast-offs,
scraps,
nail,
canine.