My father’s gun
I went out and the snow lay like a sheath
Dumbing the soil and the houses
I wondered who would hurt another
And the woods cried life would hurt another
Again and again the sharp bifurcations
Of the black trees and the black earth
Lacerated the whiteness
I understood nothing as usual
But went indoors and wore my fox face
All day I spat out the pain
Of thorns and worms and people.
Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2018
The tin dog barking his guts out
The three notes like a cracked gong
She can feel him bashing along
The corridor, his tail striking the dado
In miserable happiness
He has been heard by a woman
With no key, no heart to get up
Go out, feel the sun striking the retina
The fat mud extruding as glorious wormcasts
His ministry is one of just sitting it out
Till something changes
Which it always will-
And now he has commenced howling
To prove this very fact.
Veronica Aldous 2018 all rights reserved
I was thinking of visiting you
By now you will be mystified by leaves
Haunted by squirrels and small slow maggots
Fingering and boring into the sainted bark.
I feel you in the sunset when the shadows
Skitter over my hands and upturned face.
In the night I hear your low thrumming breath
The way of sleeping which is simply rusting
Composting dreams into mole hills.
Bracken sprays its spores across the humus
The deer rise astonished
Their bright muzzles wet with nuzzling
The mush of viridian and sap green grass.
I truly think the forest took you.
I swallow the juice-truth and it neither comforts
Nor disturbs; as in a deep wisdom
Or a mournful song, or the peet-peet
Of the little owls, or the spread of light
From a lit orb; I could go on
Weeping into the chasms of my heart
Stumbling along word paths
Searching in all the godly places-
The stupid lost loving little life of a beetle.
Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2018.
Picture shows detail of a winter scene by the artists and poet
Harbours are where we hide our eyes
A mutual love of grey green sea
Legs stretched out, brick wall behind
We survey the differences
How your hands seem less sure
How some silence is an alembic
I weigh up a resentful solitary boat
Rusting on its moorings
A forgotten oar left rotting
You are looking at your beer
The gods have sent you some fire –
I am hurting
Tide slaps the pulleys
You hurt more
I feel yours more than mine
Yearning to watch you sleep.
VeronicaAldous 2016 all rights reserved