Tag Archives: Sean Lavery


that pickled vintage,
always on the ropes.
A sea change
of course.
until it hits you,
right between the eyes


To be an uninvited guest.
A stranger in your own land.
Undocumented and overlooked.
Passing invisibly
through the teaming throng.
Waiting at the light for a break,
with people screaming silently.
Breathing in exhaust pollution.
On a dreamtime journey –
upstream and against the tide.

I’m So Hollow

I don’t talk.
I speak with a headlong
rush into the silence.
Pregnant and embarrassing.
Full of half-forgotten threads.
Awkward eye movements.
Sounds that hope to be words,
but fail at the first syllable.

I don’t talk.
I speak to fill the void,
you have left.
Whirring like an
empty reel of tape.
Magnetic in its brilliance.
Crackling and fantastic.
But hollow all the same.

Ready to be Reborn

the background breathing.
Slowly slipping down.
Setting-sail on a wide river.
With a mind attuned.
Focused not on here and now,
but on a place beyond the body.
The place where the soul goes.
Swaddled and ready to be reborn.

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.