My Imaginary Flying Machine

My imaginary flying machine
lifts me just high enough
to clear the garden fence
and carries me silently
through the darkness.
I control by telepathy
the invisible engine:
I tell it to follow
the line of the streetlights
along the empty streets
that lead out of town.
Once over the fields
I steer by the stars
until I hear but can’t see
the water flowing over the stones
in the dark chasm
of the stream-bed.

This I follow,
plunging with the waterfall,
leveling out
as the stream joins the river,
startling an owl
from its tree on the river-bank.

Sweeping under the arch
of a bridge, where all is invisible
and where the water
echoes for a moment, I emerge:
and here the river widens, merges
into the dark mass
of the sea and I turn
up into the sky,
banking to follow
the curve of Draco’s tail
as it weaves between the Bears.

 

Draco_and_Ursa_Minor

Draco and Ursa Minor from Urania’s Mirror, a set of constellation cards by Sidney Hall, published in London c.1825

 

Poem copyright (c) Dominic Rivron, 2018

The image is in the public domain.

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Five Poems

My Favourite Hole in the Ground

My favourite hole in the ground
is on top of Harkerside Fell.
It’s not very big but
you can lie down in it, just,
so you’re out of the wind.
If you look over the edge
you can see for miles
only don’t get too comfortable
or one of the straggly nettles
that live there
(vicious bastards that they are)
will bite you on the arse,
even through your trousers –

so take care.

 

Traveling North

I do not buy into
the drumbeat soundtrack
that seeks to make sense
of the night as I sit
drinking black coffee
trying to stay awake
(I’ve a long way to go).
There are no dancers here
just tired bodies
strapped into the machine:
you’ll see for yourself
if you step outside
into the dark and if you
look in through the window
you’ll see a man
sat at the table there
watching the lights move
on the motorway
and trying to write it all down
before it’s too late

 

Freeloader

I’ve never seen it
but the tree is so big
that for two whole weeks
each autumn everyone
within a one-mile radius
munches pink ladies.
Someone always brings me
a bag-full and every year
I say thank you and think
they taste so good
I must go and find it
for myself but I never do.

 

The Big Picture

When we reach the end
there’ll be no credits rolling
as the music of the spheres
plays out: no-one to perform
the autopsy. Without
a body, so they say,
there can be no murder.
It will be as if
we never were. Time passes:
cause and effect set
the record straight, conceal
the evidence. Probes
from deep space find
nothing definite,
ascribe a name or number
and move on.

 

Scrutiny

Today they came
to measure everything
to make sure it was long
or short enough.
They wear light suits,
they smile a lot and say
they’re here to help us. Then
they consult their laptops
and tell us everything
appears to be within
acceptable limits although
we might consider shaving off
a centimetre here
and there. They say
the same thing every year.
I wouldn’t mind so much
only no-one seems to care
what (in each case) lies
between the beginning
and the end.

 

Copyright (c) Dominic Rivron, 2017

All rights reserved

The Naming of Plants

Naming of Plants

with apologies to Henry Reed

Today we have naming of plants. Yesterday,
We had weeding. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after planting. But today,
Today we have naming of plants. Though gunfire
Can be heard coming from the television,
Today we have naming of plants.

This is Galium Aparine, which is also known as Goose Grass,
The preponderance of which will become clear to you, once in the garden.
This is Epilobium Angustifolium, known as Rosebay Willowherb.
At last, on TV, the firing has stopped and sirens
Can be heard. As for what’s going on beyond the borders,
Who knows? We can but wonder.

This is Urtica Dioica, the removal of which can be
Unpleasant without gloves. And please do not let me
See anyone attempt it in a short-sleeved shirt. One can do it
Quite easily, so long as no flesh is exposed. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see them
(They are, surely, malevolent) until it’s too late.

And this is Taraxacum Officinale. Its intention
Is to conquer the earth. All we can do is our best
To rid ourselves of it: we call this pulling up the dandelions.
We do it in Spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
Men in uniforms can be seen running (on TV).
Someone said it was another kind of Spring.

And Spring is when the trouble starts: it is
Perfectly easy if you have strength in your fingers for the Goose Grass,
For the Willowherb, the Dandelions, and time to weed
(Which, in our case, we have not got). The guns
Remain silent. All will be well, perhaps, after all.
And today we have naming of plants.

 

(c) Dominic Rivron 2017

Insomnia

A Short Story

Something had woken him up. Terry wasn’t sure what it was. It might have been Eve turning over, pushing her knees into his side. They were lodged there now, warm and soft, but perhaps they’d been there for a while. It might have been a noise but if it was it had stopped by the time he was awake enough to hear anything. Perhaps it was Ben but that was unlikely. Whenever Ben made a noise it meant he’d woken up and if he’d woken up he’d be screaming. As it was, the house was silent except for Eve’s regular breathing and the cooing of a pigeon somewhere outside. It was no longer dark. Weak light, almost like daylight, was falling through the thin curtains.

Terry turned his head to look at the clock. It was 4.30am. His limbs felt heavy but his mind felt alert: too alert, as if he’d never go back to sleep. A moment ago he’d been dreaming he was driving a car. Someone had been giving him directions. Turn left, turn right, move into the middle lane, take the third exit. The person giving the directions talked like an increasingly hysterical sat nav and the directions were getting more and more complicated. Now, awake, he couldn’t remember where they’d been going. Perhaps he’d never known.

The alarm was set to go off at 8. Until recently, they’d usually been awake when it did, sat up in bed, bleary-eyed, feeding or changing Ben. Things had begun to settle down, though, and more often than not Ben slept through. Now, when the alarm went off, whoever woke first pounced on it to switch it off as quickly as possible so as to avoid disturbing him.

It occurred to Terry that since both Ben and Eve were asleep, he was alone and free to do what he liked. A sense of elation gradually filled his mind the way water sometimes slides across a beach, finding its own level, without ever rising into a wave as such. He had no idea exactly what he was going to do but he decided there and then to get up and do it.

He had to move slowly and carefully. The last thing he wanted to do was to disturb the others. He slid, quiet and naked, out from under the duvet. Fortunately, the light falling through the curtains was now bright enough for him to see what he was doing.

Hunting through drawers for clean clothes would be noisy. He dressed quickly in the clothes he’d worn the day before which he’d left crumpled on the floor next to the bed. He stole across the landing, hardly daring to breathe as he passed Ben’s room, and made his way downstairs.

By now, the sunlight was streaming in through the kitchen window. He filled the kettle and turned it on. As the kettle began to sing he worried that the sound might be loud enough to wake the others but no, not a sound came from upstairs.

He brewed himself a cup of tea and stood for a moment holding it, feeling its warmth, looking round and wondering what to do next. He could sit at the kitchen table. Or he could go through to the lounge and sit in an armchair. Outside he could still hear the pigeon cooing. Other birds were singing, too. It looked warm and bright out there. He opened the back door, turning the key as quietly as he could, and stepped out into the back garden.

It wasn’t much: between two wooden fences an oblong lawn stretched away from him. It was hardly big enough to kick a ball about on. To his left, under the wall of the house, stood a white plastic table and a couple of stacking garden chairs. Scattered around on the lawn were the colourful ephemera that went with small children: a baby-walker, a small plastic bucket and spade, a half-inflated paddling pool.

At the end of the garden a gate opened onto a path that ran along the back of the terrace. Beyond the path, and separated from it by a privet hedge, lay the park. There were trees in the park. Terry could see the light of the early-morning sun shining through and between them. He sipped his tea and then looked up at the sky, noticing -for what felt like the first time- how it just went on up and up and up. There were wisps of web-like cloud you could see through, very high. Over to his right, to his surprise, he realised he could still see the moon, a grey ghost. He put his mug down on the plastic table and made for the park.

Not far along the path there was a gap in the hedge. It wasn’t the official way in and out but you could see that many people used it by the fact that the grass had been worn away around it. Desire-lines branched out from it, fading as they penetrated the open space. The most well worn line, though, led to and spread out around a particular tree. It’s low, curiously-shaped branches made it ideal for climbing. That it had been climbed often could be seen from the patina on the bark. It was very tall and not only were the lower branches convenient to climb onto but also there were plenty of well-spaced branches making it easy to climb -if you dare- all the way to the top.

It was to this tree that Terry made his way. At the foot of it he stopped. He sought out the easiest approach to the lower branches, took hold, and pulled himself up. Above him, the higher branches faded into a mass of foliage. The higher and more inaccessible they looked, the more he longed to take hold of them. The highest appeared from below to belong to a different, better world.treestory2

He moved up quickly, his mind absorbed in the route he had to take and the moves he had to make. Towards the top the branches became thinner and he could feel the whole tree swaying slightly beneath him with his weight. All of a sudden, like that of a diver breaking the surface, his head broke through the canopy of leaves at the very top. All around him, in the immediate vicinity, the packed mass of leaves gave the illusion of a solid surface. Beyond this and below him he could see the roof of the terrace and, beyond that, the roofs of other terraces in the other streets that made up that small town. To his right there were hills. To the left there were more roofs, then fields and, further away and less distinct, more hills. Straight ahead, in the distance, he could see the sea.

(c) Dominic Rivron 2014

All rights reserved