Some poems

Cleavaun in the snow

Pat

Was it him again? 

As I pull over Cleavaun

Or at Paulines, 

When Veronica smiles

Or in my chest, on a run.

That’s his ache, I’ve thought

and that breath I push out 

Seems like his, when it pulls back in

And that’s where I find him 

All these years later

The man I never knew

Not in the stories really

But in the bits, 

In the line of mam’s tear

And the shiver when John laughs 

In the journey of my thumb 

over the threads of his jumper

What a bumpy ride that is, 

Thats his thumb, I’ve thought

That’s his journey, is it?

Mont Blanc

Trekking

Up with the sky

Leaning on me

My bag was a bit damp

I packed and left

The rhythm of dawn

Pronounced by gravel 

Heavy steps

heavy in the wind

The bells of cattle 

Clatter the arrival of noon

Up there

I’d stop, and eat lunch 

In the dim of the evening

I’d spot a crook

And sink into the hill

And let the moon

Sink into me

Making dinner - 19:32

She roars the steam

into the extractor

Fusilli bubbles to a supple bend

She’s there with two pots

Rushing the air around her

As they froth and turn 

To the stirred intonations

Of her wooden spoon