It's Still Life

The Colour of Elsewhere — Poems from the Periphery

Denmark — III

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— 12 July: Vejby Strand, Græsted

the coffee
has gone cold.

somewhere
between blackbird
and wren

I forgot
everything.

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— 13 July: Perimeters

my grandson walks
the garden’s edge,

one side
given to the hedge.

like a cat,
that no back
to the open.

under his breath,
stories battle.

the earth warms.
fumes catch fire.

someone must
save the world.

round again.

the hedge
keeps his place.

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— 15 July: Morning in Denmark

it is the simple act
of falling in love
with the sky.

shadows
in its clouds,

the puzzle
of the physical world,

and I built
myself a day

around
sun-soft tarmac,

its familiar scent
wandering
without destination.

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— 15 July: Stars for Sleeping

she wakes
to sew,
sunlight
threads her needle.

a quilt
with Van Gogh swirls,
stars
to sleep below.

she stitches
and talks,

a voice
the floor refuses.

stars
and stars
stitched
to the night sky.

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— 17 July: My Four Grandchildren

He’s Sixteen

on his back
under a tree,

cushioned
by a thousand twigs,

he tells me
everything
I should know

about
ejection seats.

above him,
branches
move in the wind.

He’s Six

we admire boats
in the harbour.

an evening walk
with the youngest.

silver-grey timber,

bleached by salt
and glaring light.

is this dock safe,
he asks,
it looks older than you.

She’s Seven

from above,

she watches
the room.

unicorns.
tutus.
everything
purple.

Spanish
climbs the ladder.

English
climbs down.

she rests
her chin
in one hand,
and listens to

another foreign language
that she doesn’t yet
understand.

She is Eighteen

she is my heart.
regally

claims the best chair
in the house
for herself.

voice soft as a leaf falling.
and she tilts her head
and smiles —

wishes me
good morning.