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Displaying 1 - 5 of 62 entries.

Stars

  • Posted on February 24, 2017 at 7:02 pm

Some go to the harbour
for the buoys
or gaze out to sea;
others fly to crested castles
for knights hoping
for a favour, to be won;
we go down to the undercliff
where the spray
catches us, reeling.

Landed, quiet and still
wrapped in you, I feel
your breath on my shoulder;
each exhalation full of
fragments of dreaming;
every inhalation drawing
inspiration for more.

Our limbs become branches
of a single tree,
acquiring leaves;
and stars.

 

2016 © Andie Davidson

Arms, length

  • Posted on October 17, 2015 at 5:45 pm

On our sides we are unarmed:
half the hold, so limbs won’t sleep
before we, wishing the whole
embrace, fall to peace.

Under your neck, beneath my arm,
tightly try to keep a flow
from heart to fingertips—until
our weight draws tingles

and admission, that much as we
are made to hug, we must turn
reluctantly, to curve ourselves
in long touch, nose to toes.

Skin then speaks, not in the press
fully armed, but in a million
minute nerves, ours, counting
what ten fingers can’t.

Skin to skin, folded more fine
than any paper crane is turned
we become one shape, a single
sense of all we need to say—

the extent of which we never know,
unfolded gently by our dreams
then close again in sleep, and wake,
to hold, half-hold, find our length.

 

2015 © Andie Davidson

White

  • Posted on August 9, 2015 at 9:56 am

that’s the colour it will be.
Or maybe not. I imagine
I imagine how and for want
of colour I choose white.
She is beautiful on her special day
I imagine, and remember mine

white

that was the colour of her dress
then – I remember grey. My grey
wanting colour; grey and white
and the green under an overcast sky.
She was beautiful on our special day
I remember and imagine mine

white

the colour of a clean sheet
for writing the best story of
your life, your future, your love
to read, to share, to tell, to live.
To be beautiful on your special day
an imagine-and-remember time

white

that’s the colour it might be. I
may never know. My name
unprinted on any page, unmade
in being unspoken, unable
to see you beautiful on this day
unrememberable, unimaginably

white

that’s the lie, I imagine
when you are asked about your
father who does not give you away
and you say estranged but not
especially on this beautiful day
and you’ll remember without imagination

white

your small lie, if not your dress and
a page in our lives and a wish
to give you a way—and imagine
how a wedding presence could
still be beautiful on your day
I can’t imagine I won’t remember.

 

2015 © Andie Davidson

The final settling

  • Posted on June 2, 2015 at 8:02 pm

I

This is the final settling
of dust, like the hour after snow –
silence unmarked by footfall,
respect before action.

The place of greeting now
just a door, in fallen leaves –
a winter of junk mail and news
unforaged: a single red-bill berry.

The hallway familiar in every detail –
except an assertive absence. And an
unfamiliar permission to touch
to tidy, to trammel, to trespass

into drawers and cupboards and
under-beds, unseen and thick
with dust and long-dead dramas
and dreams – and the bags. The carrier bags …

II

A life left in untidy fragments
furred over with a feeling of
do not touch, I have not been
touched for so long, so long.

In this tangible stillness,
the fine particles of his wearing,
on and in and out and settled – is an
unsettling presence lingering on.

And all those personal things –
glasses, teeth, hearing aids and combs,
their once-warm readiness to wear and use
now greasy, stale, waxy – hard to touch.

Beneath the dust is dust, and –
as if they’d run away to hide
in every rummage place, counting –
over two hundred obscure cameras.

III

Taps. First clean the taps. The sink.
The loo. Fresh soap. A towel. Bring
cleanness into this with Marigolds –
and retreat to a cafe for lunch.

The dirt is easy, the kitchen
unasked for and unasked about –
all thought of rescues for a
useful knife or tin, discarded

with biscuits, butter and green
things unspeakably prodded
into bags, beginnings of this final
settling of unanswerable neglect.

Something new intrudes this space,
room to move, space for sacks
black and bloating with the
obvious discards of a house.

IV

A drawer drags out like an open mouth
waiting for a dentist’s probe, forgiving
the intrusion for the sake of a fix, cavities
and old fillings of rolled-up socks.

A door discloses dreary clothes
that hang alike from left to right
shaking themselves out on shoes
foot-moulded and hard with time.

Bits and boxes, fallen hangers,
things best cleared long ago but
forgotten and left as too much trouble
in the surrender of age and energy.

In places, dust is alleviated by a hope –
an expectation, a desire for secrets –
some final revelation of a private life
betrayed by the carelessness of dying.

But the grey decay sinks too deep and
nothing, a solid total nothing, signs
and underlines every cranny as seen,
lacking even interpretation of surprise.

V

The second day, the third – tea bags
and biscuits in an oasis, black sacks
piled outside, windows such as can be
opened for air, doors long stuck still stubborn.

Decisions tumble out now, freed from
pretence of any finds among worthless
souvenirs and foreign coins, useful gadgets,
buttons, needles, cards in backs of drawers.

The only care is with the collected cameras.
What to do with so many unknowns, their
recognition evaporating, thinner than the dust,
as we rack them, pack them, crate them home.

And all those carrier bags – disintegrating embraces of
letters, statements, documents, curled photos,
the latent lists of life and leftovers, unsorted
and waiting for the hours of unfolding.

Rebagged and removed they will
trace and track the strands still reaching
out and away from this house into
a world that carries on – and needs to know.

 

2011 © Andie Davidson

List, or inclination

  • Posted on April 24, 2015 at 1:05 pm

I was just out walking one lunchtime, down an old railway track now a walking route, and saw someone had dropped a piece of paper. It was an unusual list of penciled items, and it made me wonder what lay behind it …

Blue print said ‘Redevelopment Planning Consent’
the obverse stanza, scanned, less clear.
Having fluttered from pocket to leaf litter
I hoped it was remembered better than the fall.

It began simply enough with ‘Bra’
‘Slippers’, weaving narrative out of clothes to
cleaning tasks and things to take until arriving at
felt, and sewing: what was felt? … a needless thread.

Sometime folded in four, pristine and neat
containing aspirations, maybe hopes, intent
maybe consent, planning redevelopment with
ideas and reminders to be stitched, to wear.

Was she walking her dog, to return this way,
would she notice her script on the leaves?
Was it enough to write and remember
the list, or was it just an inclination?

 

2015 © Andie Davidson