'Picking Olives' – All Island No Sea

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I watch an elderly neighbour wilt, through our kitchen
window’s frosted glass. A tracksuited teenager 

offers her water. My muddy fleece matches
the communal garden opposite, your bump

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almost bigger than our packed fridge, spitting
out the snacks you crave. I’m wearing my best
smile, making a joke so funny that drivers 
on the road below rubberneck; the open freezer 

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door reveals family photos, holiday magnets. I wash 
salad, prepare olives. You shriek, we’re clutching stomachs, 
and I hear neighbours in the garden tearing up
roots. I’m viewing our lives from under our spot-

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light; planting olive pits and watching you grow –
our little one kicking; changing life as we know.

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'I Scrape the Earth Underneath This Pram' – All Island No Sea

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to celebrate the moment I am here

with my new-born – like initials on a tree.

I use twigs to uncover beetles – I hold

them up to mark the occasion.

The hills huddle around the city; wear

clouds like oversized sombreros.

Mid-day reflects off the pram’s frame, Spring

uncovers fingerprints. The young 

group behind play George Harrison’s

‘Here Comes the Sun’, under parasols.

I’m sat on a memorial bench, my foot

above the pram’s brake. They grow up so fast,

I’m told.

 

It’s time to saunter home to feed. Rock

climbers reach the cliff top beside us –

unhook heavy clips; like my changing

bag’s small straps, swinging

during our easy roadside stroll.

The athletes negotiate ice cream, throw down ropes;

smiles and sweat drip over cones.

I savour the surroundings a last time and notice

the plaque behind me: ‘Johnny spent

such a happy childhood here’. 

Lift my neck, the view beneath the cliff

pops up like my son’s toy firefly.

Youth will fall behind, but happiness

can be found at any time.

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'Yellow dress' – White Eye of the Needle

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You pose in a yellow dress

On a heated patio,

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Smile as cool as Tignes:

It resists the midday sun.

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I want to pause a minute

As you stroke your curled, dark hair,

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For a lockdown seems forever

Without your beauty there.

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Olives sunbathe in their oil,

Swelter side by side,

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Our hedge slumps over brick,

An aged window pipes out bakhoor.

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I sweat, still, burning this to memory,

You glisten like an Asanga,

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Dress draws me in, a gentle tide,

Curves soft in lemon.

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'Mister Painter' – White Eye of the Needle

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Houses rub shoulders,

Paint falls like peeling skin

And I ask where the sea is

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Amongst the rubble and the dirt: a small face–

School kids back off the bus. They joke,

Skip and dance, and the hills roll in

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The background like silent guardians,

Waiting for the rain.

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An old man grips a rubbish bag

Like a painter needs his pots,

'Paint this part, Mister' say the kids,

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Pointing at gaps in the houses. And he sweeps

His brush, coarse as a wave, heavy

As rain. This too will age.

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'Chimney snorkels' – White Eye of the Needle

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We reach a corner and catch a couple
Hand in hand–keep our distance,

Fingers away from our faces.
The light has faded, unveiling

The moon; a crescent with a single star
Below–as if they arrived to a night’s party together.

The canal glistens, narrowboats like guards on shift,
Replacing daytime geese patrol.

From thin, black chimney snorkels,
Smoke invades the crisp air, putrid and thick,

A woman sits in a saloon, back to the open door,
Asserting a point to male companions.

The cafés and pubs look empty, but in the
Distance a ‘Pizza’ neon sign bends the horizon,

Who has the dough for electricity while
No one bakes and not a soul visits?

Underneath a bridge, a man waits by the path,
His coat is zipped up tight; he seems bemused,

Anxious. Flashing an impatient look, his eyes
Brighten in the dark. He lets us pass in silence.

I gesture a thank you–his mouth looks like it opens,
But it hides behind a mask.

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