from SECRET LIFES

THE SECRET LIFE OF THE VILLAGE

It has almost stopped raining,
but cloud's still lower than our house.

Abandoned shoes and burn marks
show points of departure on the street,

blackberries and sloes fill the hedges,
waders call at night. I used to have

a bookcase that opened out on hinges
to reveal a secret room beyond.

If there is such a thing as community
it is now invisible in the morning mist.

THE SECRET LIFE OF RAIN

Depressed. Staring into rain
beyond the playroom doors.

Autumn is earlier than ever:
smoke is mist is cold is grey.

Miles from nowhere, especially
work and home, I am drowning.

Language problem if the doctor calls:
no reply. Other storms and places

weave in and out of memory.
I have no idea how this happened.

THE SECRET LIFE OF THE DRUNK

Tentative sacraments: tributes read aloud,
his poem scattered with her ashes out at sea.

Told me he'd done time. Someone else said he'd
volunteered for two months after the earthquake hit,

simply picked up his tools and went, leaving his
studio, his partner, his home. Still doesn't talk

about it much. Spends time painting over mirrors,
deconstructing string theory, swallowing dark pints.

Talks to anyone who will listen, stares into the pool
he built in the garden from discarded local stone.