Poetry
Orkney
Fata Morgana
The world turns upside down
the lighthouse lies flat on its back
houses swap position
high now low, hills swoon in pink
old stone cross flipped
the fisherman fidgets, blinks
Island restores itself
like a flipped coin
tail to head, head to tail again
the sea ironed black
land straightened with a shudder
dizzy from its exercise
the fisherman all buttoned up
Highly Commended in the Forward Prize 2020/21
The Harray Men
knew only their parish, only this land of close
cloistered fields and now suppurating crops
bringing armfuls of hunger, the district at a loss.
Not long since a stranger had travelled through
dangling a crab at them, red as a new wound,
so they took a risk for this maet, covered mountains
with strides to his world driven by talk of harvest.
But the sea was a maelstrom, a dying wish –
they didn’t understand the principle of nets. The tide
slid in and blackened the seaweed they didn’t
know how to eat. They slithered over rocks in boots
meant for soil, damned the gulls and their sleek bellies.
Their women grey with waiting and codling children.
Nothing is wet sand. Nothing is marram grass
tougher than string. A conspiracy of empty waves.
No skerry scrapers here only dilderin’ aboot at the erse end.
The Harray men dragged themselves back over
the ridge into blizzard, snow filled their mouths,
ice settled on closed eyes. They were blanketed,
huddled, garlanded scrap. Found days later, the dead remnants
of a plan, the man with the crab never seen again.
First published in Butcher’s Dog
The Loch at Harray
We glide out, dip the oars,
barely disturb the water
or each other. Light opens
the end of the loch,
the reeds, and the bubbles of flies
shaving the dark flat surface.
Breeze lifts your fringe, soothes skin.
The trout avoid us
in the shallows, but we see
them cruise. Our bloodstained
hooks lie untouched. September;
we might not come back again.
The sun cools even as we slide along.
Soon it will be the equinox,
a long dive hard to imagine.
The loch turning into a cold place –
white metallic. The grey fingers
of standing stones on the ridge
pointing to a smudged sky. Nothing
has been quite as clear for months.
Winner of the Frogmore Prize 2005
Hospital
Naked
He’s in the garden again, disrobed,
just his boxers, though they’ve told him
keep covered up, it’s the rules:
no PJs in the common rooms, outside,
no dressing gowns or bare torsos.
He never takes it in and we’re not sure why,
the rest of us internees, our problems
worn like shields and yet we’re defenceless.
His room is opposite mine,
during the night he’d wander inside
looking for something elusive. I’d scream
and he’d scoot like a rabbit.
He can’t sit still, he’s asleep
or on the go, a roll-up, a can of Vimto
though he’d prefer alcohol – we’re dry
here (God knows I’d love a glass of wine).
It was late when he arrived and dived
in and out of our rooms to squeals and shouts –
women in various states of undress,
a strange man on the rove. Our
spasms and jerks, our tics and faints
gathering apace, enough energy
to lift the roof off our little centre
for FND, that no one’s ever heard of.
Lucy, next door, complains until
he is tailed by a nurse twenty-four
hours – he’s only here a day or two
which turns into weeks. Not FND – he
was attacked by his ex with a brick,
and now he wanders constantly, searching
for answers. This is no place for
finding those, we’re lost in
clouds and mists, the young girl
fitting in the corridor, and me with the boy
leaning heavily on his walking stick.
FND: Functional Neurological Disorder
Highly Commended in the Bridport Poetry Prize 2020
Institution Garden
Our half-moon garden is surrounded by a tall fence
with an overhang at the top and a padlocked gate.
Is it designed to keep us in as well as keep others out?
I’d like to debate this, but it never comes up.
I watch staff hurrying along the path outside
always in a rush. I once saw my CBT therapist crammed
into her cycling gear. The path must be an important
route between somewhere and somewhere, I’ll never
find out. I gaze through the diamonds of wire at a blackbird
on the trimmed lawn, foraging in sight of the sick.
I saw his partner the other day, all of a flutter
we were in on it together. A cat often slides under the gate;
white and grey-flecked it steals its way to the
automatic door leading to the dining space
a place I’ve come to hate. Eating is an agony
we inmates mostly share, an exercise in staying alive.
Often, I have the garden to myself, a shed
full of chairs in disrepair and attempts at borders
with sprawling bushes, the occasional strawberry
plant coming into season. Potted plants with
fizzy drink cans stuffed in them, shreds
of roll-ups on the hexagonal paving.
It’s where I practise mindfulness supposedly –
try the garden my OT said, to clear your head.
The benches all face in on each other; in the centre
a circle of greenery edged with painted stones
decorated by former patients, some bright, all suns and stars,
others indecipherable which makes perfect sense.
CBT – Cognitive Behavioural Therapy
OT – Occupational Therapist
First published in One Hand Clapping
Puzzle
Jigsaw puzzles are the centre of attention
in the day room. There’s always at least
one on the go: countryside with too much green,
maritime with too much sky, or too much Disney.
Patients gather around the table, heads down.
One nurse rarely does anything else,
she’s the master of the game. ‘Come and join in!’
she beckons to lead me into the maze of play.
It’s either that or Connect, and I’m not keen
on one-to-one and don’t think we’re not competitive
just because we’re on a ward. I try. I do try
to be a puzzler. But I fail. I’ve never
seen the point, even as a child I soon
got bored though my Nan would puzzle all day –
a thousand piece one at least. ‘It’s amazingly
calming,’ says my friend Gina, who’s really
keen, and colouring in, she likes colouring.
I tried it too, my honey brought me
crayon pencils and a colouring book
with flowers and spiral patterns. I lasted five minutes
but my OT was impressed. ‘Well done.’
She’s very young; there have been times
I’ve watched her zone out, perhaps thinking
about her boyfriend or what to have for dinner.
I would have too at her age. No harm done.
There’s no talk of cures, did I say that before?
Tomorrow I’ll try to puzzle again. Just once more.
OT: Occupational Therapist
First published in Mountains we cannot see anthology in aid of Mental Health Charities.
Joan of Arc
Jeanne recounts the apparition of St Michael
He was all fire
defying ground
I shielded my eyes
I’d looked for a heaven
I could recognise
His words
gilded my body
There was nothing
I could do
but be his work of art
He breathed sun
into my lungs,
shadow-less
His words
poured sparks of iron
to drift through
my thoughts
caught in my throat
like a fish hook
First published in Raceme
Rumour at the fort of Vaucouleurs
When she came looking for help she wore a red dress
When she came looking for help she wore a grey dress
She had hair as black as a raven
She had hair the colour of burnt light
She was tall, no, of middling height, actually, of stunted growth
She could ride a horse expertly
She’d never been astride a horse
She had three brothers and a sister who was dead
She had three brothers and a sister who was married
She turned the fort on its head, crowds gathered to hear her speak
Crowds gathered every day for weeks to hear her cry for France
She understood language
She understood resistance
She was a virgin
She was a virgin
The captain sent her away.
The captain wrote on her behalf to the Queen of Sicily,
the captain never wrote a word
The captain gave her his sword
The captain gave her his sword
She was sent with a royal guide to meet the dauphin
She picked him out of a crowded room. A man she’d never seen before.
She did not pick him out. Queen Yolande arranged everything.
First published in Raceme
Jeanne, after crossing the Somme Estuary
Stepping onto land I felt as though the world had stopped,
knives between my toes, my legs oak-stiff.
Even my hands had lost all feeling – they were in chains
but it wasn’t the steel, it was the open cold.
I wanted desperately to look back, one last glimpse
of the sea, so I could remember the sinking of waves.
The soldiers laughed and pressed me on –
You need to forget water and think more about fire!
The way ahead was black, a grainy sky
where just now I’d seen the constant blue of heaven,
only for a time though before the clouds came
and the slinking in of night, the filthy breath of men.
I will always be with men, even until my last sip of wine.
Even until the last question I put to God.
First published in Raceme