Resurrection

Crab apples falling

make a lovely sound.

Words and pieces falling.

Death unto the ground.

Do we love the autumn leaves

or the pictures our thoughts paint?

The glances, glimpses, sun-struck

crunches, sheened and pruned

in secret places

and in my eye

omens of winter

come forward,

Lazarus-like,

to be made again.

Splitting

Cleft, Bereft. They call my house

a symbol of heart-ache: things

coming undone. But I, at its

heart, find joy in the jump

across the divide with a thump, a thump.

Yes in the rain it’s a bit of

a piddle, but dry skies draw back

my eyes to gaze onwards

and upwards, both inside

and outside: a perspective of stars

whilst a cracked bar of soap

plays into the splits

and the fissures of hands we call fingers.

Matta Clark: Splitting