1
a load of gutted loft insulation
stirs on the front lawn
an airy cake of yellow web & dust
we & the strange house
breathe in slight differences
through late winter nights
that resound to little adaptations
& imagined trespasses
the space above has increased
the January morning is a shallow basket
left by the dustbin
weightless
full of snow & brilliant tracks
2
the chalk stratum glows
between thunder & carrstone
a low tide behind
the sea wind come to life
3
a chimney unblocked
after 20 years
voices return
from undressed walls
it dawns on us
the oceanic surge through
seconds of disrupted grammar
the sea wielding sun
to open windows
4
shifting whispers of sky in the hearth
taste of stale air in cupboards
relative absence of paranoia
5
sticks of rot & woodworm
feed the reopened hearth
ease this decayed air out of the house &
mouth into the local star gale
6
the winds walking
waves on the sea
through the carpet
right to the fire
on the horizon
a white citadel
7
February quarter light & dawn smell
Rustin's Pure Turpentine
150 mil of titanium white
the last smear of indigo
breadcrumbs & linseed oil
the ache of the familiar versus
the ache of the unknown
the day's first oystercatcher lands
facing east
8
mussel beds sunk under the storm
top of the world whipped headless black
noise as of boxes being shifted
way below or above
hair-dark wind
9
trudging back off the low-tide mussel beds
a muddy Tesco bag full of late sun
& two pints of living shells
the making tide & blue angels
go about their business as usual
you can walk here so far into the sea
that when you turn around
the land appears
like someone else's and your own idea