FRANKFURT
I flew to Frankfurt on the slate grey day
In August nineteen ninety-nine that great
eclipse of pre-millennial dismay
collapsed under its own aestival weight.
My flight was held by half a hopeful hour,
Yet still the blanket bathos did not break.
Wild heaven, let me at least glimpse your power.
My eyes looked up from reading about Nick Drake,
I craned from the cheap aisle seat at Heathrow
To see a cloud of, at best, doubtful hue.
I sighed “well here I am, well there you go,
You came, you went, you fizzled, good for you.”
Oh, Nick, you could have told me not to trust
In nature to be kind. No, nature’s just.
PITLESSIE
Picked parsley from the garden, once I knew
What parsley looked like … “just a fair-sized bunch”
She barked between her laughter. – “Look at you,
There’s nothing to you, take a proper lunch” -
So, soup with home-made melba toast, then roast
then some fruit pudding. I could eat, full well,
And, talking being what we both feared most,
I ate, and stayed politely in my shell.
I knew she was a sentry, for a far
And doting parent; she’d share notes by phone
while Staffies fussed, and when, at times, the haar
was near, that watch helped me feel less alone,
transported me beyond the fuss of life
inside the other bubbled fussy Fife.
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