BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE WHIRLOWDALE

for JA

Peter's son is an eminent eye surgeon
who drives an Aston Martin. Peter is dead
and his house is for sale. I have only ever seen
the Aston Martin once. A taxi is parked
outside Peter's house. Gypsies have taken
lampstands and stud partition walls
out of Peter's house. Decent curtains
have gone up. Douglas says, looks like
we are getting more of our coloured brethren.
The woman from next door but two
who is older than she dresses;
I don't know how young she is,
trundles down, any news? Big Toj has reckoned
there must be a large family. Next door says,
as long as they don't play drums or build
an extension. They go back to their newspaper.
Last week we ate a disappointing Duchy Original
chicken and tarragon soup. Prince Charles.

WEIGHT

A heaviness has sunk into me
like an old armchair. This austerity
has been gaining pounds
since the crash in the Middle East.
Now, if I try to lift myself,
it is like I am coming from a deep floor,
up through an ocean of my thought
and it is dark and I am changing.

Now it is time to decide
who to be. The closet is open
and the monsters are knives out
in the night at my throat.
I have a wasp wing. A lion claw.
Pressure rings in me
like a bullet in an oil drum.
I can feel my evil thrum.

It is hard to love. Love is hard.
Love is a fossil inside a rock
and the rock is hard
Love is hammer now. Love is anger.
Love is a broken tool. A split shaft.
Love is a stone. Love is dust.
Now it's a breeze. Now it's blown
Everything is broke.