Stars in Jars (13 page)

for George and Can

I so wanted to be an ipod,

play tunes at the bottom of the sea,

tap my fourteen feet in time,

bounce my baby on my knee.

It would help to lift the gloom

among the sea cucumbers and sponges,

instead we nibble on a whale

and stretch our sixteen inches.

I try to sing a famous song,

but really it's not the same;

at the bottom of the sea

it's hard to make your name.

But when shoals of fish

swim by and give a friendly nod,

I think maybe it's not so bad

to be a giant isopod.

Your clothes still smell of cinnamon and garlic,

your hand of lavender and musk,

despite the drenching and the soaking,

the days you must have floated

between stern and sodden deck.

Chesil's arm of pebbles beckoned,

guided you to Wyke,

and here you lie, who are you?

with stained glass blue all round you

bringing your dead eyes alight.

You've knotted wrack and thong-weed

plaited through your hair,

I'll pick it out and keep it,

lay these lilies at your feet,

bring flowers to you daily,

be your sister while you need me,

sweep the aisle, wipe the altar,

I'll see you claimed, all right.

Your lips are grey as lias,

your fingers hold the air,

your bones are made from beauty,

when I touch your arm, you care.

Mary Anning (palaeontologist and fossil hunter) visited the body of a woman washed ashore in 1815 after the
Alexander
sailing ship was wrecked off the Dorset coast
.

The tractor does not wobble on its spring,

the slide is not slid upon,

the helter skelter makes a solitary swirl,

the swings cannot remember when the sun last shone.

The benches wait for watching parents,

the dustbin's tummy rumbles,

the climbing frame train is going nowhere,

the roundabout grumbles over its soaking chairs.

Wet letters through the letter box,

an orchestration of drips,

delphiniums bent with weight of water,

street party calls it quits.

My disdain for the rain on the Côte d'Azur

lasted only as long as the drizzle.

Grasping strength, it pelted the leaves

of lemon trees, skimmed the skins of olives,

laid boughs of bougainvillaea low.

The fronds of palms trees dribbled,

umbrella palms dripped,

oleander blooms drooped,

the veil of rain thickened.

Then, still.

Until,

a flash of lightning stopped

all ice cream eaters in their tracks,

the deluge was back –

tripping down the tram lines,

trickling down necks,

trapped in open canopies,

gushing down the cycle tracks.

In its wake –

a blush of petals on the glossy pavement,

a sea restored to cerulean,

keen air, fresh enough to breathe.

If you have a headache

I swim up the tap

and add a little aspirin

to give that pain a zap.

When you're in the shower

and you run out of gel,

I wriggle up the showerhead

and squirt a dreamy smell.

If you're in the swimming pool

convinced you're going to sink,

I'm standing underneath you –

floating's easier than you think.

My favourite though is making snow

from the dampness in the sky,

every flake is different –

they land on your hand with a sigh.

There's one who walks across the pool,

and two who natter at the side,

another shivers at the shallow end

standing half in half out.

Below the glass surface a swimsuit skirt

billows like a sea anemone.

The talking pair take a swim across, together,

but only when the way is clear,

they're scuppered when a shark dives in

with sleek black skin and goggles –

they know she'll do super-crawl, never looking up.

The walking woman tries a doggy paddle,

holds up her head and scampers for her life.

When her paw touches the far side

we all stop dead.

And slap our dripping flippers.

I threw a coin into the sacred pool

and made a secret wish.

If I tell the wish

then I will never have a friend,

If I tell the wish

then wars will never end,

If I tell the wish

my angel fish might die,

If I tell the wish

I will always wonder why

I threw a stone in the sacred pool

and made a secret wish.

I used to jump the pavement,

do wheelies in the air,

but now I'm in a photograph

and I just sit and stare.

My feet won't touch the tarmac,

the handle-bars are turned,

my gloves have melted on my hands

and my nose is rather burned.