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I,
Ultragreen,
Infragreen,
Spring,
look at the rain ...,
On Highgate Hill,
Silt,
The World at One,
Heels,
Tulips,
Arrangements,
Rosa Wedding Day,
At Night,
Questions,
Midnight,
two of us awake ...,
II,
Open,
The Children's Room,
String,
Strip,
Ten O'Clock,
To,
Cows,
Thistles,
August,
Tapetum Lucidum,
Cull,
The Wood,
Blackberries,
Down,
III,
By the River Lau,
My Hand,
no handkerchief ...,
Between Our Feet,
Look,
One,
My Heart,
Between,
Two,
Next Door,
Cento,
call it what you ...,
Acknowledgements and Notes,
Ultragreen
A water drop
turns in its skin at the end of the garden
and opens one eye to the sun.
Unsteadily, at the speed of light, its plain
no-coloured heart breaks into such a green I can hear it
loud and bright and green to distraction.
It turns its eye in my brain, looks out
and sees what I have seen.
Something like photosynthesis begins.
Infragreen
Something the sun and I see eye to eye in
winks in the crux of a leaf.
For every turn of the turning earth
it makes a tiny correction
half letting go of itself
half hanging on.
Spring
You know what the sun is like
it has a way of looking at us from side to side
of rising above its various nationalities
and making things grow
as if that's what a life-form has to do
to get more attention.
Up come snow drops
pushing and shoving and putting on weight
daffodil nubs break out all at once
where the grass is thin
and even the weak municipal crocuses
divide and multiply, insisting they matter.
An empty plastic milk container
left on the kitchen table
takes a breath, increasing in volume
filling with light.
look at the rain it always seems to know what to do
coming down clear and direct silver and fearless
many too many to count in one quick freshwater shoal
no thought no thought at all for what happens next
shaped by the air it runs through going its absolute fastest
round at one end sharp at the other in and out of control
it manages somehow to look its best its every last drop
clean and true and hurrying to put its foot in its footstep
falling over itself into earth's cracked bowl
it disappears as it collects vanishing from the pavement up
grounding the sky and lifting filthy waters
falling into itself in the street as if only falling matters
On Highgate Hill
How it rained;
we caught the bus up Highgate Hill
past Whittington's cat and the hospital.
The driver insisted he was full –
twenty wet children, pleading, shrill,
how it rained.
How it snowed;
the bus got stuck on Highgate Hill
and we stood on the pavement in pumps and heels,
children pelted the windows and wheels,
their walk to school a wild white thrill,
how it snowed.
How it shone;
we held our breath down Highgate Hill
through stinking heat. A teenage girl
chucked study guides across the aisle,
a boy spat on Swiss Army steel
and it shone,
how it shone;
the children kicked their seats until
the driver came roaring up out of his stall.
He bent in the middle. We saw it all.
The engine turned over. Traffic stood still.
How it shone.
Silt
Between the school and Whitehill Food Market
two small motor repair shops operate
from opposite sides of the street, one on the corner,
one with Hand Car Wash And Valet Services
sharing its neat white stucco art deco yard,
where less than once a year I take the car
to have its moss scraped off and some of the silt
sucked out of the velvet-effect upholstery,
sugar and salt and worms of rubbed white tissue,
anonymous embedded grime, filaments
and particles of inner-city filth
accumulated through the ins and outs
of all those journeys, prints of my footprints pressed
on the brake like a prehistoric assemblage,
the padded bodywork a safe, repulsive
five-seater cave I have to return to,
part of the landscape, its familiar volume
somewhere to look from as a dirty sun
slides behind chimneys and rooftops, or the moon
comes out from a billboard, centring the sky
between Whitehill Food Market and the school,
where a glade of plane trees reaches over the fence
of the padlocked playground and a broken drain
wells at the side of the street in long black water,
sluicing the pavement, falling back on itself
and sluicing again as cars slow through ahead
of the traffic island, washing a black sand beach
inland over glittery concrete flood plains
to the walls of houses...
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