Born in the summer of the gathering storm,
Soothed each night by the rhythmic thud
Of bombs falling on the Glaxo plant
As she Listened With Mother
All Rosy and cosy in the Andersen shelter
Watched over by eyes in father's potatoes
Studding their soil sky like stars;
Spiders were her night time friends.

Endlessly re-knitting cardie into scarf
They also served who sat and waited
Picking balsa wood pips from their teeth
In the pretend-jam sandwiches of birthday teas
Barrage balloons hung cheerily along the Thames
Just for her - the little girl made Marion
Exotic firebloom freckle flower
In a family of Rose, Daisy, Violet and May.

Practical things: a carving fork,
Stardrops to clean my bath - properly.
A box of notepaper with a photo of
Malham Cove - we like it there.

Garments: scarves, of course
A turquoise shirt with parrots on
And for Wendy, nonplussed,
Openwork pastel crochet trousers.

My sister has also had
Shampoo for dull and lifeless hair
Skinbrightening facial scrub
Mouthwash and footspray.

"Do you still like reading?"
Books about beetroot, thrush,
The healing power of water
Optimum nutrition, tantric sex.

Wooden wands with scent infused,
Crumpets past their sell-by date.
I am secretly disappointed now
When she buys me body lotion.

The blokes are all such wankers here
I hope they’re better in Kashmir.
I’ve got to find a husband there
My mum and dad are in despair.
I’ve turned down both my Walsall cousins
But in Kashmir, well they got dozens.
Innit.

We did not know that cheerful girl
With rosy cheeks, soft shoulders
Hair tumbling in jaunty waves
Who smiled at us from the funeral card.

Even your own sharp bones
Were hurting you from the inside
In the end, pressing their hard knocks
Against your tissue-paper skin.

Hollow eyes and hollow heart
All of yourself given to others
Who did not count it dear –
Short life, so thinly lived.

Wise woman
Whispering your secrets to the willows
Leaning in close to catch the ripple of your laugh
Tell me the story of the valleys:
I will learn your language of mud.

Mapmaker
Rubbing your way into folds of the landscape
Cradling chubby hills in the crook of your elbow
Teach me the silent arias of fish:
I will knit you a frill of dragonflies.

Traveller
Knowing the way to the salt-sanded sea
Nudging the stones from my pockets
Take me to the place of open sky:
i will hold the moon's silver safe for you.

Emily's cheek is
As soft as cream
As round as an egg
As smooth as butter
Floured with talc
My babycake.

I told you not to wear it.
Not for the unravelling edge,
Not for the frayed neckline,
Elastic fibres stretched 
beyond their snap,

Not even for the tiny hole 
Of moth or tear.
Nor for the faded lion 
Less yellow now
Than the armpit stains.

I told you not to wear it
For its statement
Not vintage, just too old.
Trade Against Apartheid
Support The Front Line States.

"It's me," you said.
"It's who I am. Still".
You rifled in a drawer,
Pinned a chipped Che
To your left lapel.

Ernest as his name, father was away
Beating the Nazis with the neatness of his inventories
Seasick, then homesick, then sick of it all
Counting the cost of the ruins of Germany
Lodged with a family just like his
Where a girl with plaits and a too-small dress
Knitted the same scarf, thumped the same piano scales
Laughed at spiders and the same stained moon.

Then victory was ours, and he came back
To his kindly, pretty wife and a daughter who did not know him
"When's that man going home?" she hissed
He was not a man to pull her to his knee
Throw her in the sky and catch her in his arms
With a joyous shout; she held the basket
As he pruned and told the names of all his roses,
The secateurs at home in his grip.

On either side the kitchen lie
The things I need to make a pie:
White flour for pastry mounded high,
And beef that first I need to fry,
Beside my red Le Creuset pots;
The Archers on the radio,
The rolling pin rolls to and fro,
And purple on the tiles below
A bundle of shallots.

The Tesco man will soon deliver
Salmon from a Scottish river
For the starter – something clever,
And panna cotta all aquiver
In the red Le Creuset pots.
Invoking Granny Rose’s powers
I rearrange a bunch of flowers
No-one home for hours and hours
I’m frying my shallots.

In the glass-walled room they continued.
The Chair left the meeting at 10.30am.
Earring scratches the window of the phone
Electronic purr and click of answer.
I know it is you, although you have not spoken yet.
I hear your deep breath and figure I will need one too.
Still you cannot speak, so nor can I.
The Committee men are mouthing on like fish in a bowl,
And you huff out your news as if
Saying it fast will stop it being true.
I groan, I retch, my knees fold into a stagger.
Then I walk back into the room of raised eyebrows,
Take the next point on the agenda. Private and Confidential.
Our business, not for casual chat with strangers.

Brazen strumpet daffodils
Loud-hail that spring is here,
Bellowing their yellows
Through the morning's muffle-mist.

Garish fairground primulas
Scamper round the feet
Of haughty tulips sneering down
At birds in the cheap seats.

A scurf of blossom dusts my car
As cherry flirts with thorn
And harebells flick their skirts
For flighty butterflies and bees.

Don't you know it's autumn here?
All loss and death and brown
A drawing down of blinds inside
A fading out of sun.

Have a heart, you careless lambs
Skipping out your joy
On eyeball-aching green as if
Summer will still come.

Drive the coast road to Cancale
Remembering to spot the Mont St Michel
Floating island on its muddy bay.

Buy two kilos of mussels
From a stocky sailorwoman at the harbour
Who shovels them into a flimsy bag blue as her eyes.

Let them weep a small pool
Of bay water and juice on the journey
So your car will tang forever of today.

Swish them in the sink and shave their beards
Then throw them to the hot pan
Little mollusc martyrs to the garlic.

Make them offer up their salty secrets
Open-mouthed and greedy for the wine -
Though some will not confess and stay tight-lipped.

His talk is
As smooth as a black horse's flank
As smooth as trombones
As smooth as Brylcreem
As smooth as an eel
As smooth as lead.

Time is lagging lazily like treacle from a spoon:
Trap these summer moments in a molten amber glow.
Kiss me sweet and tender in the golden afternoon -
Time is lagging lazily like treacle from a spoon.
Taste my salty nectar shot with sky, with sweat, with dune,
Lie with me, my honey, as the sun is soft and slow.
Time is lagging lazily like treacle from a spoon:
Trap these summer moments in a molten amber glow.