Poetry

Toast 

For Leonard Brown and John Pigott

Having toast served with tea
On arrival at some warm country cottage
Or in the shade of an apricot 
Coloured six pack, 
Is best done between nine and one. 
The heated body; the litter of crumbs, 
blackened and scraped, 
too long by the temperamental radiator. 
Too often eaten alone,
Too often at the breakfast counter, 
Or as a prop in the mouth of a late father
Throwing on a business coat
With an account to close.
There is no pleasure in being welcomed by the scone,
The muffin is too new world, too heavy and
the croissant, too of the continent.
A slice of toast, however, with butter and jam—
Unselfconscious, more than just a serviceable snack 
To take the edge off the coffee, 
To protect you from the battles of Angels and Demons.
The sharing of toast as a guest appears for a chat,
Scott towels for napkins,
To talk of press freedom and Gaza and the
Government’s want of your medical records 
And the price of food goods. 
The offering of toast to a visitor with a cup of tea,
More humble than pie, 
generous surface, 
Levels of preference, 
Lazarus fare,
Emerging with nervous energy,
Transformed,
Without fuss. 

An old man
Lost the sandal
He was trying to wash
To the tide.

Two Canaries

The woman through

the wall just

sneezed and only

two nights ago,

groaning,

came.

I haven’t seen

her in weeks,

but I have heard her

living and being,

as cold as I am,

listening to

the same bright

canaries, singing

with the sunrise.

This beige railing
Keeps changing colour.

The beige railing
Keeps changing colour.

But it doesn’t realise.

Bach wakes me before time,

the bedroom light grey.

Two toads appear uninvited,

colouring my day.

Ancient profile,
Time is locked within your perfect slope—
an affirmation of survival,
and survival of faith
in the face of crumbling empire.

In exile, your very compass would
be offered thyme and rose in summer and was privy to
the now censored scent
of rotting flesh.

Queen of the senses,
She offers you eyes
to see in the places that are not for looking.
She circulates the Northern air in the way
that the mouth cannot do.

It will not cheat you of clarity,
it will provide you with resolve.
This modern rush
to pull down the monuments
does not apply to you.

Memory of a harvest

There was a bug
in the trees
that resulted in a brief harvest
and the season was cut short.
The late nights
of processing ended with an unconvincing word and
the body was called to adjust.
Three months of oil,
sweet oil,
were stored in the tanks
and the mountains of pulp from the pips hardened in the winter air.
Sabba cleared out, silent.
The labourers departed,
chasing their work.

Shroud and Other Poems was published in Greece last year through Kerkyras Books.

A second edition run is planned for print in 2025.

A new collection of poems is also due for 2025.