OCTOBER

...damping down the fire when
the door flies open and he's
standing there as if the storm had
delivered him,

greatcoat on, face grey,
cheekbones sharp as hunger,
lips shaping her name but faint,
a radio fading out.

Two feet between them and the clock
worrying the moment with small teeth.

He is looking past her at the tongues of
glass in an antique lamp as if
they are whispering here,
this is the source of light.

Where have you been? she reaches then but
he shakes his head, splinted, stiff.
How long since he moved inside her,
his rhythm a train gathering speed?

But even if, he'd said, even if I
don't make it back, I'll come home.

So here he is, culled from
the soil of France,
the revenant.

COLLAGE

whittling
he's carving wood for curls

no he's working with rust
a rope lock salted into promise

unravelling what's spun
silk shawl
wire wool

a snail shell is currency
button
shard of glass
the shrunken skin of an old balloon

he trails the streets
looking for skips to loot

a master of his art
so says the local press

she calls him any old
and laughs a sullen laugh

sometimes when he's working
she'll pluck an eyelash
watch it float into the scene
spit the thin curve of a fingernail
leave a whorled print

ephemera

she's in there somewhere
in the throes of his passion
a brushstroke
a note
a word

---

Tag: Jo Hemmant