My mother died seven years ago, but last night
she had a message for me. The mechanics
are irrelevant, what she gave stays with me

Girls under the tree,
one with hands clasped as in worship,
the others picking
the scarlet fallen seeds

What is the ancient curse they know that you don’t
Moving along their mouth-lines and their eyebrows
Lowering their lids, tensing their nods or shrugs

After his baby son died he strapped
a tumble dryer to his back and ran
the roads around the village.

I’m always thinking about how I can find more human beings.

Sorry, but I’ve stopped
cleaning the windows.

Perhaps it’s because
I look like
I’m just passing through

Unmoored on an ocean of heather
no wind to pluck the strings
of the aeolian harp

Those night boats are back.
Fishermen string their nets
Counting fresh catch.