for Jon, Andrew and Anna

You keep, under your eyes, two gulls.
And they keep you under their wings –
their eyelids, Holland, their wings.

The horizon is never satisfied. I understand.
If it had a voice – today –
it would be your voice;
if it fell quiet – yesterday – still, today,
I would hear you calling.

There is a great distance inside me, and a line
where the dunes meet the sky.
There is a great silence inside me,
and through it, perhaps beside it, clouds are slowly moving.
The gulls keep you under their wings,
and pierce you, suddenly, with flight.

We should feed the present – like this –
with pieces of soft bread it snatches from our hands.
It will bolt us, both of us, together.
And if it has a voice – sad, raucous and insatiable –
we have a quietness it can never take.
Holland. I understand so little now.
My mouth is two pale green crabs
holding on to the air with slender pincers
because the air is like meat
and, today, I am hungry.

Fisherman clouds, lowering fine steel lines,
bacon, hooks, all the rain of Noah:
April's turning into May, and May – here –
into September. You keep two gulls under your eyes –
two gulls, two rains, two Septembers.

We should feed tomorrow like this – gently.
And let yesterday drink softly from our hands.
There is a great stillness inside you, and a line
where the sea leaves the dunes.
There is a slight distance between us,
and through it, perhaps beside it, we are slowly being moved
under a massive sky.

April. I am not satisfied.
Fused haze and calm, steel to steel,
Holland lies, cast somewhere beyond the molten lines
where our eyes let us go.
We keep, under our flight, two rains –
two seas, two Hollands, two rains.

There is a great quietness inside me, and a cry
of white gulls scorching the sea.
There is an horizon inside me,
and if it had a voice – now –
it would be your voice;
if it fell silent – then –
I would throw it soft pieces of my breath,
calling your name.

Tomorrow – today – yesterday –
hold on to me with slender pincers.
They are almost pure hunger – and they pierce us –
but we have a hunger they can never take.

On stilts, the wooden house – stove, harmonium and everything –
is walking away. And what was once leaf, resin and air
no pitch or tar could preserve,
it was made for flooding – everything, music and fire.
Lie down, and you will see, there's light beneath it;
and, beneath the light, ourselves, walking back.

Tomorrow – today – yesterday –
I hold them in four slender pincers
of hard, pale green.
Tomorrow – yesterday – today –
we have a hunger they can never take,
and – with this – we pierce them.

September – try to take it now.

Copyright © Michael Ayres, 2002.