Explorer
After Eilean Ni Chuilleanain’s ‘Swineherd’
.
When all this is over, said the explorer,
I’ll find my kaftan and open-toed sandals,
twist my tagelmust onto my head, pack
water, factor 50, dark glasses.
.
I’ll hail a camel, climb up between its humps,
pray I’m not seasick on our voyage into the desert.
We’ll follow corrugated tracks over the stony plateau,
turn our backs on dust storms and tourists.
.
The days will shimmer and I’ll chew figs,
drink mint tea brewed in a pot on a stove
at the edge of our path. Three green glasses
at one sitting. We must move on.
.
At night, I’ll shake out my clothes, my stiff legs,
lie in a scoop of sand under constellations
I can’t name, a nomad at sea in heatwaves, salt.
I will trust only the camel and go on.
.
Embroiderer
after Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin
.
When all this is over and Covid-Bayeux 2020/21 declared complete
I shall leave my confined space with its fine stretchered linen
and woollen threads in every shade; I shall stop working spheres
with stem stitch and couching — spheres I have observed
with their particular hues, their colour variations captured
in my sketchbook along with samples worked with crewels —
I shall leave off embellishing those beautifully terrifying spheres
with their perfectly contrasting peplomers in French knots,
bullions, beading; with sequins and metallic threads; yes,
I shall stop all of this and go to where my machine’s
been waiting this long time and thread it up with best polyester;
I’ll lower the feed dogs, set tension to five and place a hoop
of taut poplin under the 90/14 needle; press my foot
to the pedal and free motion my way out of all this.
.
Trending
(The Fashionista).
when all this is over
said the fashionista
I will flare again
.
I will zoom to Milan
and work the crowd
if I live
‘
my style will be viral
until I pass on
if I live
if I can
‘
crowned queen of trend
myself forever
if I live
if I can
if I want
.
but why wait at all
said the fashionista
my mask is so now
.
Firework maker
.
When all this is over said the firework maker
they will be calling me back
to load the gunpowder spaces in grey tubes
in a coat of carnival names.
.
There will be an explosion far from my home.
Both my ears will have turned deaf
to anything but the softer sounds
of You are my sunshine, breath
.
in a penny whistle promenade.
I will lie on the beach learning the language
of plane trails in a silent sky.
We will talk only of lining and piping.
.
In the forest I will pick up a crab like a china cup and saucer.
Pink wafers will crumble between my teeth.
Under my fingernails forbidden warm tar
will paint petrol perfume on the skipping rope handles.
.
I’ll follow the flanks of the great brown horse
leading the canopied red milkcart
as it disappears round the corner.
Listen — the wren’s tremolo fills the wych-elm.
.
I really liked the idea of learning the language of con trails….particularly since I live below one of the busiest long-distance flight ‘junctions’ in Europe, and I’ve learned again what a silent sky really is. I hope you’re all enjoying this as much as I am. More tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow…
