one day last week monday i think i
balanced the books and
paid back time
all of the time i have ever borrowed and
fell upwards through a hole in the sky
into a pocket in the apron of nowhere and
there in the dark pieces came at me piecemeal
debris turning dizzy through the magic spell of space
every scrap story thread
even the wrapper of a used up mars bar
liveried in its smart red black and gold
the light years came went and stayed until at last
i saw myself before the door to home
breathless turning the handle in both my hands:
surprise !
i found i have been here all along :
under my head my own pillow
in the bed my entire family
and all of the things humans animals
i have ever loved

fell through living one day into dead dead
walked round in there – and round – hitting head against wall
nothing hitting nothing
nothing to hear it neither
black
couldn’t find my way backintolife
(i didn’t want it
it didn’t want me)
so i set up home here
ate ashes
made ashes out of ashes and sold them to ashes
and when i couldn’t think what else to do i smoked ashes
until one day when outside decreed
i would see the world as beautiful
and find myself flung up from dead dead
bursting breathing gasping into life
dazzling
into every cell of every being which ever has been born

no limit

there’s this thing in me
that needs to be free

the world lives inside me
(ask any Buddhist worth her salt)
because I am unhappy
the world is unhappy
the trees, made sick by june
offer up a department store xmas
cheap with gaudy cherries
they deck their grief
in a hysteria of blossom
they’ve closed their hearts to
the man walking hand in hand
with his one true love
even he can’t raise a smile:
the world lives inside me
and because i am unhappy
it is unhappy.
do the world a favour
make me happy again

we went to see him in hospital
they lost his teeth (he’s dying)
so we couldn’t make out his final words
his mouth sucked in and blew out:
the sound came singing, close then far off
he cried when we said:
‘the room is full of angels’ (it was)
he cried again with:
‘your mother’s here’
(she was: all neat curled hair, gloves and pretty box bag)
his mouth sucked in and blew out
a dangerous sea between rocks
and his round eyes looked at us
stunned, appalled
again he spoke: wind through pipes
a grey owl moving over the landscape
across the rooftops of the places humans live
across the roof of where he lives
where all his lives are happening, unfolding, even now:
he turns to drop the black kettle on the range
rinse his cup under the tap
the strong hands – too big now –
reaching for another hand, a human
gripping on for dear life
the gift of breath
the gift of sound
the gift of love
if i could have a wish
it would be that he know peace.
not peace as in end of the night
when the TV’s switched off
but the ferocious, thunderous mother of peace
the one that rings in the ears
rips life from life
eternal wild rejoicing
tossing us over and over again
onto the foamy shores of life
that seismic peace, epic, cataclysmic, silent
the mother from which we’re torn

owl flat face pale ghost, silent
owl in the nighttime
she moves above the houses
amongst the nodding trees
it is i who calls your name
soft, persistent
so the others won’t hear
owl moves amongst the secrets of the forming berries
what tells them how to burgeon and when?
you stir but do not wake
the sound to you is simple:
simple as the breath in sleep
and just as much a part
i call you to the place
the other side of time
where there is no you
there is no me
there is no owl
no promise of tomorrow
no shadow of the past
not even the space in which
the earth turns about the universe
taking off her hat
to the stars