| Signs (For my eldest daughter,
Laura; and Anna and Kate)
Three hundred million years ago, this island
was nudging the equator, and took off
northwards on a whim, to shudder down
in rifts and seams in this cold sea.
Twenty-four years ago, the first signs
that you wanted to be out, a tightening
in the back, and the feeling that I had to be
near water, this was where I came.
Today I sit on rocks whose blunt grey folds
have something of the elephant about them,
patient under wigs of bright-green algae;
and remember how heavily I trod
in my black cape around the lighthouse, telling
myself that if a bird were sitting on that obelisk
that squats so blankly in the sea, that you
and I and the birth would be just fine.
And what was I to make of those three cormorants,
perched on that narrow space,
no room to spread their wings?
(Note: the island is St. Mary's, north of Whitley Bay)
Commuter Moon
She was high tonight, he saw at once,
filing with the others from the station.
Dilated, looming woozily towards him,
away from the buttoned-up stars.
She had to be on something, or taken
more than a shot to get herself
and the street that lit up, that perfect.
Doing the job, he acknowledged,
avoiding her gaze. Blue lawns,
long shadows, rime on the roof
of his house, on walls the curved backs
of cats gleaming like ornaments.
For his taste, a little too film-set.
Like the way his briefcase leather
had turned to patent, black coat to velvet.
Even the luminous blonde hair
of his daughter running to meet him, which,
as he swung her, fell soft and cold
as snow round his face. And the moon
behind her, too close, huge
and voluptuous, making the key
in his hand glint with a promise.
Hard shutting the door on that ache
for approval, but he had papers
to read, a meeting to prepare for.
The need for her came hours later,
like a pull to the navel. Knots
to unravel, and no-one to play with.
He told the taxi to take the sea road.
She was still up, by the pier,
motionless, over spectacular light.
Her blankness spread through him.
Someone had been at her,
then cleaned her up, dosed her.
The sea was a credit, though.
A backdrop to nothing.
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