June 30, 2011

My yukka plant is happy.
It has taken my central heating
for Central America.

It believes my lava lamp
to be a visitation
from a tropical sun god.

It grows confidently,
strong in the belief
that my irratic pattern of watering
is consistent with flash flooding.

My yukka plant is happy
high above it’s carpet plane
with the TV setting in the evening
and the car birds calling
beyond it’s canopy.

My ivy plant,
hangs it’s leaves
along the bookcase.

It tells my yukka
it is just a yuka.

But my yuka does not listen.
It knows that the ivy is mad.

Syria

June 27, 2011

He talks to a lense
straight to camera,
shadows bruised
with peony haze

‘If you had a daughter they took her.
If you had a house they burnt it down.’

And screen after screen
is glittering through my living room
a rose scarf wrapped,
around her head,

faded skyline,
washed with sunset,
magenta cloud bank,
shot with grey.

His eyes are pink
as he talks about his family,

but black oil
is barely a trickle
and no one comes.

Syria

June 27, 2011

It’s pink because the blood is done
but it was there:

‘If you had a daughter they took her.
If you had a house they burnt it down.’

He talks to a lense
straight to camera,
shadows bruised
with peony haze

and faded skyline
washed with sunset,
magenta cloud bank
shot with grey.

Screen after screen
is glittering through my living room,
a rose scarf wrapped,
a terracotta field.

His eyes are pink
as he talks about his daughter.

And black oil
is barely a trickle.

And no one comes

Syria (another draft)

June 26, 2011

He talks to a lense
straight to camera
shadows bruised
with peony haze.

‘If you had a daughter they took her.
If you had a house they burnt it down.’

and faded skyline,
washed with sunset,
magenta cloud bank,
shot with grey.

Screen after screen
is glittering through my living room
a rose scarf wrapped
around her head.

His eyes are pink
as he talks about his daughter
and black oil
is barely a trickle
and no one comes

Syria

June 26, 2011

It’s pink because the blood is done
but it was there:
faded skyline, washed with sunset,
magenta cloud bank, shot with grey.

He talks to a lense
straight to camera

shadows bruised
with peony haze.

He talks from a screen
surrounded by my pot plants:

‘If you had a daughter they took her.
If you had a house they burnt it down.’

And screen after screen
is glittering through my living room
a rose scarf wrapped
around her head.

His eyes are pink
as he talks about his daughter.
The colour of oil, shining in a barrel
in another country, with foreign aid.

Syria

June 25, 2011

It’s pink because the blood is done
but it was there:
faded skyline, washed with sunset,
magenta cloud bank, shot with grey.

He talks to a lense
straight to camera,
by a camp in a veil
of peony haze.

He talks from a screen
surrounded by my pot plants:

‘If you had a daughter they took her.
If you had a house they burnt it down.’

And screen after screen
is glittering through my living room
a rose scarf wrapped
around her head.

Pink, the colour of a country without oil.
Pink, the colour of the absent help.
His eyes are pink
as he talks about his daughter.
Pink, the colour of washed away red.

Syria

June 25, 2011

It’s pink because the blood is done
but it was there:
faded skyline, washed with sunset,
magenta cloud bank, shot with grey.

He talks to a lense
straight to camera,
by a camp in a veil
of peony haze.

He talks from a screen
surrounded by my pot plants:

‘If you had a daughter they took her.
If you had a house they burnt it down.’

And screen after screen
is glittering through my living room
a rose scarf wrapped
around her head.

His eyes are pink
as he talks about his daughter.
Pink, the colour of a country without oil.
Pink, the colour of washed away red.

second draft

June 17, 2011

It’s pink because the blood is done
but it was there,
haze of sun, blush of sky,
magenta bank of greying clouds.

‘If you had a daughter they took her
if you had a house they burnt it down.’

And screen after screen
is glittering through my living room,
a rose scarf wrapped
around her head.

His eyes are pink
as he talks about his daughter,
his sister, his wife, his friend.

Syria

June 16, 2011

A blush of sun sinks to horizon.
Veil of smoke, gently glows.
He talks to a lense
straight to camera:

‘If you had a daughter they took her
if you had a house they burnt it down.’

And screen after screen
is glittering through my living room,
a rose scarf wrapped
around her head.

His eyes are pink
as he talks about his daughter,
his sister, his wife,
his neighbour, his friend.

Tea

June 9, 2011

If you should find a cup of tea
cold as ice and slightly mouldy
it may be tea
left by me
not deliberately
but because I love tea
more than any other beverage in the world
and sometimes make myself more cups
than it is possible to drink at once
and leave one whilst I make another
wholesomely, in my kitchen.