The dark, present, scattering night,
the thick stub of the light-house folded
and put away like linen
but still the bud of its light opening
over a gnarl of foam,
such an oncoming
dark in the garden
the slim leaves of the lemon tree
quite gone,
its structure hung
by the light of its fruit.
Palm leaves hiss
in the rough hands of the wind,
that wind again
kneading the air as it wants –
The more the decades
the less we belong,
tangential as thistle
while the wind booms
seizing the chimneys
lifting the curl
of our ill-made sunroof.
Untouchable
the wind does what it wants
playing harmonica
on the upturned hull of home:
such quaintness
to build a house here,
to slip a bribe to the rock
not to open under it
Tonight the ravaging of cliffs
is the hunger of pack-animals
jostling for place,
hunting the man named Job
in the land of Uz
whose imagination painted him
a righteous kingdom
where he washed his steps with butter.
But the wind answered him
and naked, Job said, I came
and naked will return
as he sat on the ground.
The wind scours our faces with stars.
We wriggle like children
eyes screwed up tight,
our quaint imaginations
busy planting lemons
lulled by the ear-drowse
and zing of bees.
There is a cup, blue, full to the brim
with tea. There is catnip
and the brief shade of an olive tree.
Outside, a dusty road, and from time to time
walkers, who greet each other with silence
or a curt nod which affirms
the rubric of the stranger
and we are all strangers here.
At the far side of the earth’s curve
waiting to flood our habitations
there is always the night
borne on a wind beyond imagination
and not to be troubled with,
a wind that chases its load of stars
There is the dark, present, scattering night,
the thick stub of the light-house folded
and put away like linen,
the bud of its light blocked
by the bulk of a new roof.
Bildad said: how can he be clean
that is born of a woman?
And so answers a mob of men
hunting down a girl
with a wind of sticks and stones
as they strip her and beat her
from town to town
assisted by bicycles
and mobile phones.
I trouble myself with the snipping of catnip.
If I sit on the ground
it will comfort no one
and rake no spittle from the wind.