THE CUTTING EDGE                                      

turn your head until sunlight
cuts the edge of sight
without burning -
easy to gauge

not like love
where, if you shift too far
ice cracks under your feet -
too far the other way
and powder snow
suffocates the self

the secret is to find
the angle of tilt
and hold it
balanced on light

first published in Ink Sweat and Tears

A DEAD AFFAIR                                                

between two tombs
run whispers
(and him a Crusader knight
of boundless reknown -
she a gentlewoman
married and respected, say
the cold stone letters)

the whispers
(I hear them as I lean
against the children
carved below his body)
are of loins and tongues
long decayed                                                                     
ripe with lust

the bodies lie
frigid in holiness
yet colour paints faces, fingers
and there’s a throbbing
in the stone

first published in the Cranberry Press anthology Delicious

AN OLD SONG                                                                      

river runs under wind
takes sand    to the sea

wind blows over river
lifts foam from the wave

silt moves through water
under my hand    to the sea

I cross the river                     
against the wind

to the place where hands meet
and lips touch underwater

first published in Blue Skies Poetry

DANGEROUS WAYS

taking the string    I pull                                             
and let it lead me into thorns

I push them aside with bare hands
feel the scrape   scratch   trickle of blood
follow the string   straight in
to where the tiger
waits   eyes half-closed
ready   to open   its mouth
and kiss me

first published in Ken*Again

FUTURE AND PAST

of my three eyes
the first sees forwards                                   
to the path leading
over the hill

the second sees back
to crevasses dared
dark places feared

my third eye
sees up and down
captures galaxies
with a glance

measures distances
from peak to peak
on the moon

gathers lava
from the flaming centre
of the earth
and burns the road
ahead      behind

CRADLING

an armful of dragons
and nowhere to put them

I pass counters
beds, balconies, and chairs

the dragons cling
to safety, nestle close
weeping fire on my t-shirt

a snout dribbles embers
needing to be wiped
the handkerchief burns

I toss it away
stroke shuddering scales
until they stop roaring misery
and settle to simmering flame
on my shoulders

first published in Big Pulp

OF STARS AND STOCKINGS

I walk woollen-socked                                            
stars falling from heels
raining through haloes of colour
red, gold, ultramarine, yellow
puce, amber, lime, scarlet…
scatterings of improbable snow

I pick stars, taste them —
honey and lemon
vinegar and rosemary

planets crack in my hands
sing in my head
ragtime and ocean-waves

my feet flamenco
under the Hunter’s hand
the Great Bear bows to me

first published in Alternative Harmonies

HERE BE DRAGONS

between Christmas’ night
and New Year’s dawn
days feast into dark
nights orgy into sunrise
bonfires cavort
at the clock’s command

it’s an unsafe week
when the invisible
peers out of time
spectres dance
at our table -
that week
between birth and birth -
here be dragons

macabre hands reach into mirrors
borrowing reflections
for unhallowed rites -
red-haired men, coal-bearers
king the time

I cling to light like a moth
sing shadows out of night
catch movement
in corners
clasp hands and shiver
at the crow’s call

An earlier version of this poem appeared in Green’s Magazine

CHAVA’S STORY

At last. I can sit down. The last guest has gone; the last to register for the census. The inn is empty for the moment. Moishe will grumble about no income, but we made plenty over these months.

Bethlehem was full to bursting. People slept on roofs, in the street, in doorways, anywhere they could. We had rooms filled to overflowing, the place echoed with snores at night.

I’m so tired … my back and legs ache.

I kept a lentil stew on the stove day and night, never knowing what to expect.

At least it was never dull: we had fights; men who paid double; money stolen; people who ‘forgot’ to pay; children lost; and a baby born out in the stable.

That stable. I thought Moishe had lost his mind; though he didn’t charge the parents much.

He said the baby was coming so I sent a servant down with water. I wanted to help but there was an accident and burns to anoint.

I never did see that baby. Moishe said a few
shepherds came to see him … at least someone              
welcomed the poor child. What a place to be
born, what a beginning.

Sleep – I’m going to sleep.

THE SERVANT’S STORY

My feet hurt. And so would yours if you’d been in and out, up and down the stairs all day. The inn is packed.

“Clean this floor.” “Water from the well!” Chava fusses from sunrise to past midnight.

My feet hurt and I’d like to sit down but one of the men in front right is yelling. There’re six in that room, meant for two. Bethlehem is like an ant’s nest with the census: jammed to the skies and seething with bodies, many of them drunk.

And then Moishe has to rent the stable – I ask you, the stable! – to a young couple just because she’s pregnant. I had to clear old straw and hay out of that rat hole. At least we’ve no cattle in there this week. I’m no stable hand to be mucking out, no matter what the reason. And then Chava yells for water and rags to be taken down there as if the baby were coming this minute.

There’s no peace in this world and here I am, taking yet more water back there. The lane beside the inn is steep and dark and if I cut my feet I’ll demand extra money.

The man meets me at the stable-mouth, takes the water without a word of thanks. I peer in. She’s in the straw alright, crouched and bent forward, her back to me, straining … … I catch a glimpse before the man blocks my view.

There’ll be a baby here tonight. And maybe I helped,      
and maybe the straw should have been cleaner, and
maybe I should have scrubbed the manger harder to
put the baby in. Oh well. But where there’s a new
baby … I’ve Zeke two years old, bless his heart,
with another on the way.

I’m coming, Chava, I’m coming. But my feet hurt …