The Wolf Spider

A long time ago, when the tallest trees in the forest were seedlings;

There lived a striking soul.

He loomed and loped, dragging forest mist.

His shiny moon coat rippled.

Unlike any other soul, he ignored their polite greetings.

He had nothing to say and heard nothing they said.

Though they always saw him…he barely noticed them.

He seemed to be looking somewhere else…for someone else.

His burning gaze could raise the forest to the ground.

It followed the deepest grain, seeking every branch.

Dispersing into a thousand leaves all shifting and stirring.

And behind those leaves his search would end, and begin again…

…The way they always do.                        

For behind the stirring and shifting was her.

The one who picked the lock and opened his heart, to steal?

No, not to steal, to put all these things inside; love, terror, grief, pleasure, rage, kindness…and things that do not have names.

Now, standing far beneath her and with a full heart, he cries out,

‘You! You did this to me… you put this in my heart…it’s too heavy,

I’ll drop it, it will break …your voice touched me, I love your voice, and now I love you. It hurts…and I am afraid.’

Without warning her many voices poured from the trees and covered him.

‘Then give me something back’ she replied.

His fear of the unknown was calmed only by its safe distance.

He whispered desperately ‘I could run now, even with this burden I could…’

But the voices ran down his back like fingers. They clung to his skin.

‘Give me something back.’

‘What do you want?’ he trembled.

‘Half’

‘Half?’

‘Half of what I have given you.’

The wolf’s heart thundered and he was sure it would shatter, spilling its contents…then she would have it all.

‘I’m coming down.’ She told him.

‘No!’ he panicked, ‘Not yet!’

‘You are still afraid?’ .

Silence... Only the sound of breath inhaled and held for too long…

‘Shall I come down?’ she spoke again.

And on the out breath came his words…

‘I do not think I would be so afraid of you, if you stayed behind those leaves and spoke softly to me about the way you look’.

But the spider being impatient was already on her descent, and as her dark body spiralled silently towards him, he heard glass splitting.

As she unfurled endless legs from her soft round abdomen the wolf fell upon his belly scraping frantically at the spilled contents of his heart.

He could not breathe or see, tears and dust filled his eyes…

‘I don’t want this! I don’t want it!’ he sobbed hysterically, trying to separate the love from the pain, the passion from the fear.

And all the time the spider hovered there. He hadn’t noticed her. She’d been deftly picking up the pieces, half the pain, half the elation…

When the spider had finished, she kept very still, observing his crying body.

They stayed like that all afternoon, until the moon came round again; and in its light she spun silk thread from her store and made a cloth; with it she wiped the dirt from his eyes and mouth, while he lay, drained.

She did this through the night, so occupied with caring, that she did not notice his amber eyes flicker. His voice startled her.

‘Thank you’ he said.

‘We are different.’ she replied, ignoring his gratitude.

And just before falling asleep he said,

‘We are more than that.'

I see you.

Tonight I looked at the moon in a different way.

Not like a painting or something from a story, mythical.

As a place. A place that it is.

It's always been there. Hanging, hovering, orbiting.

I've never seen America, I've never seen Ireland, I've never seen Bristol.

But I've seen the moon.

There it is, a place.

When does something become a place?

When you know you can go there?

I'm looking at the moon.

Water (a poem)

They came, quiet as night and made homes of men. No one noticed.

They hid in the rain and grew in the sea.

I was out in my boat.

I woke up, picked the white flower from my hair and threw it to the water, which rose up to meet me.

Those ocean giants, took me under their waves.

I knew them from night seas, night mer. They made cities from water and homes of men.

The Lemon Shoes (unfinished children's story)

Madame Lavender fell out of bed at midday, every day, because of nightmares, being extremely fat and too stingy to buy a bigger bed. She had her breakfast while everyone else was having lunch.

She sat at her enormous dining table, bent over her lukewarm slug porridge. She held a finger above the bowl for a moment before dipping it into the filthy, writhing, milky mess and then licking it. Then she dipped in again, prodding something grey and rubbery, and then muttered,
"That one's dead"
She made a low growl,
"The Maggyrat." and then louder, "Where's the Maggyrat?"

"I hear you, your magificentness," answered the Maggyrat
"Come quick then!" snapped Madame Lavender" her black teeth knocked together like a mouth full of broken rocks.

A tiny plump woman appeared before her, almost completely covered from head to toe in coarse grey hair.

"Yes, yes your wonderfulness"
"This one's dead, Maggyrat"
"Oh, is it?." whimpered the Maggyrat, hopping from one foot to the other, like a child needing the toilet.  "...right well, I know, I'll get you another one" and she was about to shuffle away,
"No, you don't get me another one, you take this one out first."
"Right...and then shall I get you another one?"
"Well I can't get it!" said Madame Lavender suddenly getting up and putting on her smelly brown coat.
She headed for the toilet at the back of the house. Before she closed the back door she said,
"And get some sprinkles too, the crunchy ones"
"Yes of course your omnipotentness"

And off went the Maggyrat to the front garden to pick snails from the holly hock. Dozens more clustered behind the garden gate and in the doorway. The Maggyrat shovelled them into a tea towel and took them into the kitchen. She held the towel like a sack with the snails packed tightly inside, then she took off her boot and smashed it down hard on the towel until it was flat.
Then she peeled open the sticky parcel, picked out the pieces of shell and put them into a cracked flower pot.

The maggyrat took the pot into the dining room where Madame Lavender was sat back at the table.
She set the bowl down carefully and smiled, pleased with herself.

"There we are!" she said
"Yes, but I thought I made it clear I wanted the dead one taken out" said Madame Lavender prodding the ball of grey slime.
"Oh right, yes, I'll just do that now for you"
"No, you don't do that now! You go and get my hairbrush and mirror from the dressing table!"

The Maggyrat spun on her left heel and scurried to the door, but before she could even think about opening it Madame Lavender snapped,
"Not that way!...the other way!"
"Oh, but it hurts when I do it that way"
"Yes, but it's quicker"  sneered Madame Lavender, and she glared at The Maggyrat so fiercely, that she was certain she would explode. She held her breath until she almost passed out and just as she was about to, she disappeared.

The thing is, the Maggyrat would have to continue holding her breath until she reappeared in the right place, because there's no air in Nothing, which is where she'd be until she reappeared.

Nothing has no colour, no smell and no light, but it's as thick as cold lard, so you can't move while you're in it, and you absolutely cannot breath. If you did you would get thick, cold, lardy Nothing right up your nostrils and it would fill your head and mouth and go down your throat and keep going until you were so full of Nothing that you would burst.

So you'd have to get it right first time, and quick.

"Now then!" said Madame Lavender as she waited,  "Where are my lemon shoes?"

to be continued...

Fruit, The 3 goats - before they found the bridge. (a little stoem)

When I was sleeping I saw the The Three Goats.

They roamed the land when it was hot and dry, they ate everything that was green and everything that was not.

The youngest was the smallest but all three were born with the sun. Beetle eyes black as old blood, and hidden in crevassed skin.

Pale rock faces; angry with the world, angry with the land, angry with each other and angry with me.

I saw them graze on dirt and I walked a peas breadth above the ground so as not to disturb them. So they would not eat me.

Always hungry, the cracks in their nostrils filled with hot dust, they saw me and yet did not see me.

Or were they just ignoring me? So I carried on until I found a tiny apple tree, with fruit the size of grapes.

I picked one and put it in my mouth, when I bit down it burst, filling my mouth with so much juice, I had to swallow three times.

Why don't the goats come here to drink? I think.

Then I see the little farmer, coming as though he were shot from a gun. He gripped that tree and yanked it out! Out and away from me.

He didn't say a word. He didn't want me there. So I left with questions and regrets.

I found myself wanting, just a bit, to be back with those goats.

I wanted to know where they had been before. I wanted to climb those crevasses and walk those roads.

Suddenly I wanted it more. I wanted it more than fruit.