Four recently written poems, first shared via Blackbough Poetry’s Top Tweet Tuesday. One a celebration of a stunning display of fungi on an old stump in the local woods – which made me shriek at the kids to come and take a look. Some sort of ‘resupinate‘ I think.

Another about some golden, jewel encrusted Roman helmets I saw recently in a museum in Novi Sad, northern Serbia. Unheralded, simply displayed quietly in a side room off the main gallery.

‘A hollow in the hills’ was inspired by the recent senseless hacking down of the iconic Sycamore at Sycamore Gap on Hadrian’s Wall. I was lucky enough to see it still standing in 2011.

Then off-season concerns a small town in France I used to visit every summer.

Hope you enjoy them.

Will You Look At That

Quick – over here. You have to see this, let’s get closer.

Right behind us, back a step or two, almost seems to pulse.

Look at this, just off the path, right there.

Wrapped around an old oak stump: the ruffled frills of flamenco dresses,

or amber flames, edging the carbon-charred remains of burnt love letters,

orange cream on shadow cake, swirled around its chocolate heart,

bright lava for piping, to give a blazing trim to coal-dark track suit bottoms,

light bulbs trailing from a cable, outside a side-street pavement bar in eastern Europe,

a radiant groove, encircling a limited edition, Record Store Day, collector’s item,

a shining map of dusk, one hundred streets, winding through a wondrous elven city, 

a labyrinthine bazaar; stalls piled high with glowing silks, offsetting night-black wool,

ploughed fields after sunset, maybe a run of trenches, lit simply through the glowing 

tips of final cigarettes.

It’s Autumn now, today, even the wood’s dead trees are animated, alive with resupinates –

hairy curtain crusts, or some other type, of fairly ordinary, actually quite common fungi.

In the Museum of Vojvodina

This time, unearthed through a step into a side-room,
soil long shaken off, they shone – broken metal suns, 
suspended under glass, jolting the body with the shiver 
shock of a lingering hot-blooded kiss. No sign or poster 
advertised their presence, but there they were. 
Glinting, under subtle lights, polished now, decades free 
of darkness: Roman helmets, more like crowns, 
as if waiting here to ambush narrow expectations. 
Niched in that space, those unsuspected treasures rose 
up into view. Obsolete perspectives abruptly realigned, 
with a judicious, golden wink. Across the street 
from a pretty little park, in Novi Sad, by the Danube. 
History fast flowing through this flattest region, 
of Serbia’s northern flank.

A hollow in the hills

Stationed, as though a soldier,
fulfilling the last watch, the sap sentry 
waited off a path beside the Wall. 

You could sense it before you saw it, 
shape felt first within; like the body 
of a friend, stepping off a train.

Platform a cleft, a notch, a nestle, 
in a fold between two ridges. Where 
a million tired smiles took root. 

Touched by the presence of a tree, 
in rain, or unclouded afternoon. Gentle 
silhouette of hope, until a gap became a hole.  

Off season

In and out of age-weighted, sagging eaves, propped 
on domestic medieval faces, lonely shadows dance.

For a small French town, summer’s done. House martins 
are not at play, do not describe uneven arcs. 

Come dusk, they don’t swap shifts with bats, taking turns 
to pluck breeze-borne insects from warm air. 

No food is on the wing today. No parents breaking sweat
on pedaloes, chivvy small crews to splash on, up the river. 

Only silent passing fish are causing any ripple. And no smoking 
grills drip with fat, under canvas in the farmer’s market. 

Paper cups are no longer raucous, ripped and spilling wine, 
as sudden, brittle laughter cuts across the music.

But back at school, scratching into books, as teacher speaks, 
some children dream of Christmas.