Dining with the devil Just him and mesipping tea and nibbling cakesfrom Wedgwood plateslike dowagers: He is my friend, a ready wit to understand and whispersoft approvals. We never disagree.He takes his paymentby degrees so smallI barely feel the loss.There's comfort in the devil,comfort in his voice.
Insomnia At night when the streetslay bare I rise up in my night attirea poly cotton Draculaand tap a vein of mundane care,of slight anaemic faux despair,of whining pale ephemera:Sleepless under Mars, under vast dark archipelagosof shifting shattered stars.
My Wolf Age waits, a blue rinsed wolf beyond the gate, poodle permedbut still with all her teeth.I fear age more than famine, pestilence and war –those far off third world predatorsthat stalk the news –my wolf wears granny shoes and a cardigan to save her bony shoulders from the draughtbut her teeth are sharp.
My Child My child is fragile,I guard her well.She is invariably solemnbut when I sing – very loudand out of key – she turns her faceand blooms for me, still pale but smiling.We're making beds,unfolding linen from the press.While I load up with drabs and duns,she clings onto cartoon ponies - regardless of their shabby state.Where I see rags, she sees Beautyfreebeneath a rainbow sun -oblivious to the knacker's van.Oblivious to the axe manwho (I know)is hidingin the bushesround the backwhere simple shapesturn into snakesand medics in the dark.
Sta.sh
