Stung

 

(First published in Mslexia Issue 87, 2020)

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The rock pools shone like lanterns

the bodies on the beach became    frag men ted

the barking of a dog an impatient knock

on the door of your bedroom last summer

all the grains of sand were different sizes

the Frisbee or the dog was the wrong size

the castle on the cliff fell down and rebuilt itself all wrong

the old dead king inside woke up and declared war on Bridlington

we spoke openly    because I might die    we laughed

I dreamed of crowded streets and shouting

I said I’m sorry I haven’t had the time

I dreamed of soft brown tentacles

I wondered if things    we    I

might be different after the swelling subsided.

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Neanderthal in New York

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(First published in Tears in the Fence Issue 72, 2020)

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The cave entrances are fireless / the darkest parts are artless / there’s little to hunt but fat black rats / I scavenged a carcass from the oblate floor / boneless and sea-tasting / let me tell you something about caves / the magic is song-spun but you’ve forgotten the tune / strip-lit noise / I caught a show in Broadway and I couldn’t see the sky / I gave it three stars / I went to Ground Zero and glued my ear to the earth / respects are something you pay but you can pay in other ways / I walked through Central Park and somebody shouted flat-chested bitch / when I learn about war I will assume this to be one / the donut I liked at first - that cloudberry tang - but all too quickly sick-making, far too much.

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Ravenglass for Eskdale

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(First published in Envoi Issue 169, 2015)

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Alight here for memories of grandparents,

mudflats, and sweat under Gore-Tex.

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Strap on your walking boots, wrap up

the flapjacks in two layers of cling film,

 

take your laminated Ordinance Survey map

and follow the hachures until you reach the sky.

 

Go down to the beach, dip in a toe and gasp

then surrender yourself  to the ocean,

 

let it wash you out and up again

from Corkickle to Seascale.

 

Forget the bullies at school,

they have been drowned in Selker Bay.

 

Get lost in Skalderskew woods and emerge

in Younghusband. Die among the leaves

 

and let your flesh become mulch.

Your funeral will be at St Bees

 

and the cathedral chasm will hum with bees

or monks or friends who will miss you.

 

Passengers from Manchester may wish

to hold on extra tight, there’s colours here

 

you’ve never even seen. Slow down,

or you’ll smudge the ink of the hills.

 

Take care to leave your personal belongings

on the train; you won’t be needing them anymore.

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