wind

Resonances

Wandering around school as usual, reading the notices and popping my head into the classrooms. I have some homework to do but I can't remember what it is - something about an essay. Is it in Irish or French or English? I know exactly what I will write about but not in what language or for what class. There are instructions on the blackboards of various classrooms but nothing seems quite right. All of the pupils are wandering around like me; there don't seem to be any teachers.

I got a letter from an old friend telling me about how he has felt about me over the years. He is talking from a perspective that looks back over our whole time together and says that he has always only wanted to maintain a connection between us, and that twice now I have broken it and hurt both of us. It seems like he is talking in a way that someone far wiser than me would, but I don't know if I should take it that way or only as an expression of his perspective. I think I try to explain myself; I can't remember. I only remember stumbling up in the darkness of a bedroom of a strange house and making my way to the bathroom without turning the lights on. While I piss I see the dim reflection of my head in the mirror; it looks like my head is shaved.

I am explaining to someone about how to design a structure like the Eiffel Tower so that it doesn't get destroyed by the wind. Wind of the right frequency can induce a resonance in a structure like that which can tear it apart if it goes on long enough; you have to add extra strength or weight at certain points in the structure to destroy the harmonics.

A Ghost's Journey

The wind was driving the clouds insane -
terrified shreds flying off,
glowing sun-pink over the pine silhouettes
and foaming into a daylight moon.

We climbed the graveyard wall and crept
between the decaying headstones,
counting the years that have gone missing:
1843. 1875. 1912. All times as one.

Through a low stone arch, many tombs
like soldiers' markers in a quiet clearing.
The last time I was here, the sun marked me
as I invited the ghosts on my journey.

One followed, out of love. Now it was stormy,
and I'd returned, and no time had passed.
A new bench beside a new stone; statues
cut into an old sepia photograph.

I hugged her and kissed her hair,
feeling the energy between us. I wondered
if my ghost friend would stay or go,
if this was to be an end or another beginning.

Her mother sat smoking by the dead wife's grave
as we kissed, and the pines shook and crashed.
All time as nothing. All the death around us
had never happened - just life turning to life, forever.

Cloud Bellies

cloud bellies
dusted red -
translator -
treetop, single leaf
rain kisser, free in the Autumn wind,
still under ochre sunset

this, my breathing into eternity
to witness the million greys and reds
of the Leeds evenings

Watercolour Homework

all my reasons are at rest in her arms
and though the daylight shines through the curtains
we close our eyes and be who we are

she is warmer and closer than the sun
her face is like the soft shadows of leaves
she cries for me, then smiles and is calm

at night we are a dark sweet wind
our colours drowned in our bodies' blindness
being without, seeing within

she walks with me in the long garden
she kneels to kiss my shadow's feet
of all my loved-ones, she is my guardian