Against Hate

Sole passenger on an early morning tram
I’m half asleep when the driver brakes,
dashes past me, dives into a copse of trees,
gone for so long I almost get out to walk.
Then he’s back, his face alight.
I saw the wren! Explaining
how he feeds her when he can
and her restless, secretive waiting.
We talk of things we love until the station.

I tell him of the Budapest to Moscow train
brought to a halt in the middle of nowhere,
everyone leaning out expecting calamity
but not the engine driver, an old man
kneeling to gather armfuls of wild lilies,
wild orchids. He carried them back
as you would a newborn, top-heavy, gangly,
supporting the frail stems in his big, shovel hands.
These are small things, but I pass them on

because today is bloody, inexplicable
and this is my act, to write,
to feel the light against my back.

Twist, Arc Staying Human, Bloodaxe

The Strangest Happiness

Though we have no new words
for this time of illness in remission
we go by the weight of your hand upon my shoulder

and this is the strangest happiness:
no longer expecting anything more than
morning glories in the hedgerow, birdsong,

coffee hot and strong, some days life
feels very much the same
this way. Everything simple and separate now,

a shaft of sun across the floor. We are in love
again, and very young, and kind
with one another.

Winner, Aryamati Prize 2019