Three months on, things are rolling once more. Back in York, doing stuff. That's Amsterdam, up above there. It was the coolest place. And that was by no means the only bicycle in town. I'll talk about that more later. For now, content yourself with the knowledge that it was class. Here's a couple of poems for some reason!
The Island House
A cricket rubs his legs, wild percussion
Close to the house; close to the house
Are the open valleys with crazy-form mountains –
Slieve More - big mountain; Knockmore - big hill.
Hives on the arms are tattoos of honour,
Though the midgey convicts’ days are numbered.
They emerged, days later, from behind the curtain,
Overdosing on the quiet peace of the living room.
Over the fence, a donkey tears the grass free
With blunted teeth. There is space to hear breathing,
A steady brush of air between the lips,
The tips of the leaves twitter in the breeze.
She Held a Daisy in Her Fingertips, the Bitch
She had a camera, capturing the coast though a daisy
Held up to the lens. Her friends sounded German
Or Swedish, she looked French, or at least like
The ones I’d seen in the movies.
There she was, standing at the edge of the world,
Taking photos, though the tint of her travels;
Maybe the reality of Ireland clashed with her dreams,
Maybe it didn’t. Either way,
A month later, I was wandering through Amsterdam,
And met her in the red light district, taking photos
Of the girls in the windows, selling wet dreams.
But I hadn’t the nerve to say hi.
Three Nights In Belfast – A Villanelle
An angel, like an angel, clothed in white
Strides across the field on the attack
His antagonist stands quaking at the sight.
October’s dress, embroidered in delight
Heaven-witnessed observance of a pact,
An angel, like an angel, clothed in white.
One drizzling evening, nothing but polite
In her appraisal of all the things I lacked,
Her antagonist stands quaking at the sight.
A desperate prayer, the forlorn hope I might
Restore to you a life made whole, intact;
An angel, like an angel, clothed in white
Should patrol above your headboard, shine its light
To ward away the demons at your back,
Its antagonists stand quaking at the sight.
A man sits by the bedside, tries to fight,
And, pleading for a gem that sickness cracked,
An angel, like an angel, clothed in white,
Your antagonist stands quaking at the sight.
A cricket rubs his legs, wild percussion
Close to the house; close to the house
Are the open valleys with crazy-form mountains –
Slieve More - big mountain; Knockmore - big hill.
Hives on the arms are tattoos of honour,
Though the midgey convicts’ days are numbered.
They emerged, days later, from behind the curtain,
Overdosing on the quiet peace of the living room.
Over the fence, a donkey tears the grass free
With blunted teeth. There is space to hear breathing,
A steady brush of air between the lips,
The tips of the leaves twitter in the breeze.
She Held a Daisy in Her Fingertips, the Bitch
She had a camera, capturing the coast though a daisy
Held up to the lens. Her friends sounded German
Or Swedish, she looked French, or at least like
The ones I’d seen in the movies.
There she was, standing at the edge of the world,
Taking photos, though the tint of her travels;
Maybe the reality of Ireland clashed with her dreams,
Maybe it didn’t. Either way,
A month later, I was wandering through Amsterdam,
And met her in the red light district, taking photos
Of the girls in the windows, selling wet dreams.
But I hadn’t the nerve to say hi.
Three Nights In Belfast – A Villanelle
An angel, like an angel, clothed in white
Strides across the field on the attack
His antagonist stands quaking at the sight.
October’s dress, embroidered in delight
Heaven-witnessed observance of a pact,
An angel, like an angel, clothed in white.
One drizzling evening, nothing but polite
In her appraisal of all the things I lacked,
Her antagonist stands quaking at the sight.
A desperate prayer, the forlorn hope I might
Restore to you a life made whole, intact;
An angel, like an angel, clothed in white
Should patrol above your headboard, shine its light
To ward away the demons at your back,
Its antagonists stand quaking at the sight.
A man sits by the bedside, tries to fight,
And, pleading for a gem that sickness cracked,
An angel, like an angel, clothed in white,
Your antagonist stands quaking at the sight.
Thanks for reading,
Dave.
