David Berridge

The Ilex Road


                               The town has roofs of slate

          plucked nails of my own fingers

                                          so Ka could recognise himself as himself

                     curiosity of our own sublime ape and itch

                                                    to shape model and refine



                     a face the masses of greens into leaves

taking into the hand an ilex

                               right kind of hand whose touch

                          not diminished by distance



                                                    dough men clothed and sexless

                                          gravy masculinity

                                                                         ornate calligraphy


draws swollen breasts and bellies

                                                    one plum
                                          two plumes
                                                    three plumbers



                    along creases when earth is folded


large goose egg in each hand


                               broken wheat field not allowed moon


          every car brings more loaves



                                          are holding up the roof
                                          arms above our heads

                                          apart from today
                                          arms tiring you say



                     "silent together"

                                                               "freezing and thawing"


                               "cracking rock"


                                          "silent alone"

                               no wind
     only steam from fifty kettles


                     stone's experience of water's experience of stone





                                                               one hit of the triangle satisfies
                                                               the election is called

                                                               one blow of the recorder
                                                               kazoos

                                                               strewn over the floor
                                                               music of our friendship

                                                               throw out the window
                                                               instruments

                                                               windows vibrate
                                                               with speeches

                                                               you appear in the street
                                                               I'll wave from the window

                                                               making the link
                                                               my house and yours

                                                               a high chair
                                                               has been left

                                                               in poor debate
                                                               the instrument and

                                                               chicken leg
                                                               chivalry





on his tongue the tables the pools of rainwater

gives the new cafe a chance its vast array of teas

sun breaking through mouth's palette

swept away leaves mice riddling flood water

turns arch of bridge into paper hat




                               how did you end up the person you are?

          there was a sudden rain shower, chorus
                                                    hypnogogic


                     strode up hill wire cutters in hand


                                                               one flint one truth both hands


height marked on water level gauge

                               candles grown metonymic




          breadcrumbs in my direction




                                                    alone           stinging           standing           stones

                                          for news of themselves


                     glass
                               strangers

          is not my discovery



                                                    moon and stairs

                     cannot believe how different they are

                                          to the medium in which they find themselves

                               this contrast accelerates exponentially

                                                               with rich and poor air




                               melodies a leaf on the surface of the water

          in which we are all swimming

                     each for the other



                                    ship far out a story told forgotten half way through