Two poems
 

there’s small grass appearing on the hill-side
and many abandoned orchards in the valley
the wake of time rolls out behind each traveller in an oily V.
Good morning, you’re feeling full of advantages,
at speed, our wishes populate the echoing room
sunlight floods the market-place, for a while
we always strive to live sometime in the near future
where the horns rattle and the journeys are through winter –
slow code sounds through the concourse at night
representations are seductive, like tomorrow’s interview
or a being from another orbit of existence, leaving us in peace.
There’s bits of mist in the hawthorn hedges, now that you can see
the peninsula might be where you end up, like a jig-saw piece
coming over the Sympathy Hills, looking down on Impression Bay.

Now it’s late, time to pick up the dog and hurry
home. Soon winter will cover the fence with diacritics,
already the streetlights are starting to download
their cones of yellow. The disaccord that ghosted
everyone’s day has swirled into the geometry of softened
apartments. See, accommodate, even while you’re unhappy.
This button lights up the path from here to there, striking us
into syncope. Scene-setting is one thing, accessing the inner vein
of where your signature lies is another. It’s like a forest at moonlight
swept from above by rotor blades, now that you’re looking back.
We are dealing only with what’s statistically true.
No doubt the open country of daily life has a lot to offer
but it’s hard to cross, troublematic. A cold catachresis is
what we are seeking. We’ve given them our availability.

©Philip Mead