WALLED GARDEN

		


		
		
		
		        Painted pots bake on the gravel
		
		        The latch of the gate is
		
		                Hot to touch
		
		
		        Come in
		
		        Sticky fruit is falling
		
		
		        On a jar of jam
		
		        A wasp walks the sweet rim
		
		
		        Black cat
		
		                lavishes in sun
		
		
		        Water gathers in one corner of the garden
		
		        Stands          Smells          frog-green              
		
		        
		        Brown veined leaves are burning
		
		        Snakes hunger about the greenhouse
		
		
		        and a        cold angel
		
		                Thinks
		
		        On the neat box hedge


		
		
		
		       ASHES
		


		
		        (for my Mother)
		
		
		
		        Swing the mattock
		
		        Slice the baked clay
		
		        
		
		        Flints, chalk
		
		        The blade works through
		
		        marrow of roots
		
		        fashions the six foot plot
		
		
		        
		        Cotton seals my mother's nose   mouth
		
		
		        ... Her rings           favourite dress
		
		
		        I do not know you
		
		
		        earth           sun-brown
		
		        rills onto teak
		
		                        over final flowers
		
		
		
		        I am standing farewell
		
		        Then            Tonight
		
		        Your lips still
		
		        Your mask chalk


		
		
		
		      FINGERPRINTS
		


		
		
		        Evening bleeds red
		
		        Into the skin the pores of the sky
		
		                
		        Night's head is bent towards the slow wash of the sea
		        
		        Her feet moving over the gravel
		
		        
		        The Channel bills the land
		
		        The tide turns a shingled hand over the
		
		        Blue chin and black stubble of the sand
		
		        
		        The salt grass old thorny bushes
		
		                and sudden crimson flowers
		                
		                                        of the dunes
		
		        Then damp open scrub
		
		
		        Houses built here
		
		        Dark peat and kindle backed up
		
		        Driftwood burning       acrid   spitting
		
		                
		        In all our homes
		
		        The heavy animal sound of the ocean's rollers 
		
		                                                smothers us.
		
		
		        If I press with my fingers in the dark
		
		        They shall leave no mark.