FOOTWORK
Neat puffs of cotton wool between her toes
(the varnish must not smudge on to her skin)
she opens up the little pot, dips in -
a brush-stroke thick with Ripened Cherry goes
from nail to perfect nail in heavy drops;
she's bending forwards, thighs apart, breath held;
her hand is steady till each blob has gelled
and dried to hard enamel. Now she stops
and buckles on strap sandals, zips her dress,
buttons her coverings. It's turning cold;
she waits for Zeus, the swan, the shower of gold;
who else could see she's ready to say yes?
THAT'S MY AFFAIR
The world's well lost -- and won -- in my new shed,
the sexy one, Valencia, glazed, now up
to take spare, secret time on French deckchairs.
It's the epitome of all elsewheres:
illicit Plymouth gins; or extra cups
of morning-after caffeine; Li-lo beds
(with an inflator) for late afternoon;
no clock, no calendar; one side shuts out
censorious houses as I drink to flowers.
The lichened sundial has slipped the hours
since it last rained and yet I fear no drought:
I suck on eau-de-vie in my cocoon.
My dog's still doubtful; she will not come in,
she stands right by the door of that old shack,
the one that holds potatoes, tools and chores,
the lawn-mower, pond-net ... the pinafore
I'll wear to garden when someone comes back
and asks me where I was through thick and thin.
To return to the Home Page click here
Neat puffs of cotton wool between her toes
(the varnish must not smudge on to her skin)
she opens up the little pot, dips in -
a brush-stroke thick with Ripened Cherry goes
from nail to perfect nail in heavy drops;
she's bending forwards, thighs apart, breath held;
her hand is steady till each blob has gelled
and dried to hard enamel. Now she stops
and buckles on strap sandals, zips her dress,
buttons her coverings. It's turning cold;
she waits for Zeus, the swan, the shower of gold;
who else could see she's ready to say yes?
THAT'S MY AFFAIR
The world's well lost -- and won -- in my new shed,
the sexy one, Valencia, glazed, now up
to take spare, secret time on French deckchairs.
It's the epitome of all elsewheres:
illicit Plymouth gins; or extra cups
of morning-after caffeine; Li-lo beds
(with an inflator) for late afternoon;
no clock, no calendar; one side shuts out
censorious houses as I drink to flowers.
The lichened sundial has slipped the hours
since it last rained and yet I fear no drought:
I suck on eau-de-vie in my cocoon.
My dog's still doubtful; she will not come in,
she stands right by the door of that old shack,
the one that holds potatoes, tools and chores,
the lawn-mower, pond-net ... the pinafore
I'll wear to garden when someone comes back
and asks me where I was through thick and thin.
To return to the Home Page click here
