John McKeown

 

 

The Wild Sea

 

 

The sea heaving up

all along the seafront,

seaweed marinated

party-streamers

fired across the grass

made wetland.

 

Further down it rears

insanely,

tearing it’s white shirt

sharply against

the piled rocks.

Salt flying everywhere

like a fine rain of blood

when bombs go off.

 

And how fine

this violence,

pure as a leopard’s

at the kill.

A vast innocence

that would snap the neck,

sweep that small boy away.

 

 

 

Not Working

 

 

Odd that we couldn’t make it work

all those years ago.

But not odd in that

I didn’t believe in work then,

and don’t believe in it now.

 

It isn’t work that turned you,

so antithetical to me,

into this ageless presence, waiting

at the edge of a remembered

rain-washed field,

that I can love now.

 

 

 

Consanguinity

 

 

Out of the blue

you nudge me

like a faraway twin.

The perfect complement,

so perfect

you’re folded

out of reach.

But thinking of you

my beating heart

draws you in;

until we’re pressed close,

exactly opposite

against the night’s dark screen.

I feel your blood knock,

and all of me,

thrilling,

answers you.

 

 

John McKeown © 2010