Two poems

Two poems published in Magma, February 2005

Friend at large

Alan swings his bat-detector in self-defence.
On their toes, humans creep in the penumbra
cast by a lantern perched on his skull. Its beam
rises over the Lea Valley like a klieg light,
catching wildlife in its glare, setting creatures
free – to hover on our margins, leap
from sight. Benign stalker, ever saddened,
vigilant against his species’ presumption,
he relishes the whoosh and rush of wings,
the furry flight through darkness, the nesting
under iron bridges and in dank corridors.

Privatising the underground

Riding the thronged tube at dusk he sought
above the heads of passengers
an emptiness in which he could think
simple, impersonal thoughts.

This grasping at the idea of peace
comes down hard on the inner ear
– patient like the skin of a drum,
erect like crepe in a wind-tunnel.

As the evening settles, ten thousand
novels are being written. Their silence
muffles the sportscaster’s brio. It’s the summer
of high-pressure sales techniques,

the month of being late for work,
the week of waging war on the neighbour’s cat,
the day of which no trace remains
in the memory looping back on itself.

The signal bell keeps ragged time.
Outside Finsbury Park the stalled train
is held in one piece as one holds
an enormous breath, diaphragm taut.