Alasdair Paterson

From Noctivagator

1.

All morning
I was humming that song
about the road to ruin.

After a late lunch
I got going.

Nightfall, torchlight:
what does it look like, ruin?

2.

She slept
as the unjust will -
that long plummet
down the memory shaft
but no worries.

The shutters
had gone lavender
since last time.
Same old wormholes.

3.

The park's quiet
where the cathedral was.

Brick by brick,
for bowls of soup,
they scattered it all over.

This is a grandchild
of the revolution
lulled by his songs
and magic bottle.
A bench grips him hard.

He’ll wake tomorrow
when the truck comes
for this year’s shining
dome of leaves.

4.

Black on black:
his rooms made over
in the style of curfew.

For hours he’s sat upright
and Roman, good choice,
and for no-one, for himself.

He’s stopped the clock
but everything swings on
like a fist at a door.

Black on black
with glints: colourway,
heart of a blindfold.

What he amounts to
was packed in the small case
they’ll never let him take.

He’s floating upright
into a silence car doors make
before they’re slammed.

5.

Death, you came creeping
by the windows last night,
left a shrivelled bird,
a shrivelled bough.

It’s what you do and
why take it amiss?
After all we’re philosophers
here, six Buddhas in a row -
the standard shaven heads
and the factory seam
straight down the middle.

We’re happy to reciprocate
with these signed x-rays,
maybe not our best likenesses
but (so far) our truest.
We want you to know:
stalk discreetly for now
and probably someday
we won’t mind making friends.

Meantime we’re practicing
the stare that’s not for visitors,
you know the one, that goes beyond
beds and windows, boughs and birds
and stars, and all we know there is.

6.

Saints the colour
of the wafer moon
are crumbling in the moonlight.

The air filched
their bright coats
and rubbed away their eyes.

The weight of small birds
is too much for them.

How sad they are
now the stars
have lost their singing voices.

How they wish
God would get well again.

7.

Muted trumpet:
the new moon
has the stars rapt.

I’m quieter too these days.
Blues are just scars
the colour of my hair
and the book-towers
have closed down
transmissions of rough music.

The wind’s voice in
the pines – that’s no more
than water near the boil.
I’m staying in tonight
with the teacups;
so don’t expect me
up on the promontory
or along the promenade.

With the surf turned
down so low, I'd hear
what I depend on never hearing:
muffled oars, press gang life,
my sunk ship’s orchestra
still a player short.

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