Writer’s Block
ten thirty writer’s block another sip of lager
threading through the traffic a thin black dog
working girl’s bare white legs november drizzle
beneath the burnous painted toenails
camera flash four identical shots of a blink
factory window frames a single star
full moon broken on the steps of the weir
where the bus was an oily rainbow
distant laughter perfume lingers in the subway
just a few foreign coins in the flat cap
rippling the rock pool their last peseta
rooks and jackdaws among the brown furrows
flooded fields mirror a cloudless sky
still the sound of snoring— daytime moon
home early pulling the curtains on another morning
drawn together by their love of books
five-year diary four years of empty pages
saturday circled in red ... but why?
the President (the only candidate) gets his mandate
morning frost the first petal falls
chocolate egg left in the light melting
sticky fingerprints on the new sofa
identity parade half the suspects wearing wigs
a flurry of tickertape in the limousine’s wake
America's Team “World Champions” ... which world?
raising his cane he points out Andromeda
night of the new moon— seeing so much more than before
scanning the bay from jetty to lighthouse
in the dark a small boat— creak of the oars
again the sixth stair gives him away
advancing down the aisle the fatherless bride
with difficulty the ring over the knuckle
his gestures more eloquent than his speech
as he exits the press conference the loser’s v-sign
arrows of geese fly beyond the distant ridge
a wreath of evergreen at the hilltop shrine
Martin Lucas & Stuart Quine
30 - 31 November 1997
published in Presence #10