Category Archives: Sean Lavery

Cat Memories

Folding and unfolding.
Sleeping on your chest.
Needing, back and forth.
Back and forth.

How many cats,
have claimed their rightful place,
at the centre of the space,
that was formally called yours.

Returning selfishly,
all on their lonesome.
With ears primed,
for the footsteps of others.

With tractor purrs
and round the houses wriggling,
napping momentarily,
before moving on.

Leaving a memory.
A placeholder.
A warm spot.
Inside your collarbone.


Dead Fingers Talk

From an angle
and the city.
In a cold dim place,
as potent as lightning.
Like there’s been
some kind of ritual killing.
Burn its remains
as quickly as possible.
Deal with the body
the way you would,
a long hard winter.
Say without saying,
render into nothing.
Form squares in the sky.
Make lipstick with light,
and molasses clear.
In the shadow of the tower
on a motorway, west.
Feel the darkness around.
Feel the dead fingers talk.


The Isle of Lindisfarne

This is the news
no one expects to hear.
A collection of words,
spare in their simplicity.
A span of time,
too short to write a book.

But long enough:

to write a poem, compose a letter,
say farewell to friends and former lovers.

Long enough:

to make amends.

To cast out on the North Sea,
feel the salt air in your hair.
And sail on,
on to the isle of Lindisfarne.


Stones

Stones on a gravestone.
On a bright September day.
Visitors come and go.
Leaving messages –
tapped out in Morse code.
Rattling out their alphabets
of dots and dashes,
with umpteen variations.
And the three circles
of the trinity, symbols of eternity.
Of the great continuum,
that happens long long after.
Never still, never silent.
Always present, always there
like the stones on a gravestone.


A Ok

Round corners.
Tickets on the guest list.
Tomorrows undecided.
Feel that fleeting
sweep of indecision.
Those fast-shifting clouds.
Let’s celebrate.
Let’s say that everything
is a ok.


Remember Backwards

Right, it’s the.
Right thing to do.
The skin that shines.
The way we are.
When we pretend.
When we see an end.
Something that stretches
to the never end.
Ever remember, ever
count backwards –
one, two, three.
Ever see the light
on the horizon.
Stretch from nowhere
to somewhere then
back again, again.
Ever remember backwards.


A Burglar in Bright Daylight

The helicopter, a corpulent,
double propellerd beast.
Follows the line
of Camden Road.
So low you can
almost see inside.
Its noise cancelling out
all traffic and human speech.
Deafening us down
on the street.
Later I read the news –
it was that famous blowhard
making a landing
in Regents Park.
Avoiding the great unwashed,
at all cost.
Entering via a back garden.
Like a burglar in bright daylight.