JANET PAISLEY(UNITED KINGDOM)

PANTHER

I am the sleek shadow in long grassthe eye-slit of burning blackthat sees you first.

A shimmer in shade, my red yawnof heat on mid-day plainremembers blood.

Talons are my talent you’ll not hearthe click, oh, I’m perfect at pretence,too late to shift.

I am the night sleep of slit dreamsin a clutter of life-song. My feetsoundless at dawn.

Fleeter than antelope, I racethe rattle of corpses. When I leap,I bring death down.

Play the hide-me seek-you game,it’s fun. I like it when you run,come on, how fast?

No blood pump, burst vein can losethis hot lithe shadow. We’ll meet,make good the dance.

KNIFE

Give me a knife like the wind,a wind howling high loneliness,the wind that whistles close and fast,an ice-blast to scythe cheek to bone.

Give me a knife sharp as song,pure as the clear note of cut glass,clean as words that slice the heart,a knife that drives as deep as that.

Give me the casual knife, a shaftblack-handle snug in the palm,a knife that peels off thinnest skin,the knife that pares down everything.

Give me the surgeon’s blade,

that sliver of a branding fire,a slight-slip razor thin and sharp,the deadly living mirror that is art.

WITH THESE RINGS

You are fresh wordson the old stone of time.

Here, silence honours you,here now, the earth turns,the sun beats, the rain sings.

You are not adriftamong the wheeling constellationsbut held by the hoop of love.

Ancient as the ring of standing stones,prophetic as a snow-ring round the moon,marriage is.

Wear your vows well when laughteris the wine between you

or when night lies like a bolsterdown the middle of your bed.

May the cold shoulder of the hillalways afford you shelter.May the sun always seek youhowever dark the place.

We who are wordless knowthorns have roses.

And when you go from this daythe burnished stars go with you.

When you go forward from this day,the love that grew yougrows with you

and marriage is struck,iron on stone, hand in hand.

SONG FOR THE LOST

Globe turned between two hands,first grasp of how small this islepushed away, alone, alwaysthat head scrubbed by cold water,

flesh flayed with rivered veins,mountains torn from valleys filledto flooding, grass greening a backbeaten by rain, forever the skyscanned for moon or star to lightthe earth, light on lost children,remind them where home is. Proud,

too proud, it’s caterwaul crazed,a riot born, rabble-rousing rockto live on, dreaming of warmthdrenched in sand, a drought blazingbright colours, fine cloth, a handto hold, held out, holding out,hanging on till the boat bringsthe weary across the water,brings back news, people chatteringsweet native tongues salt with ideas,a flame in the blood sparked off.

It’s all grist, a spinning-top humof one world, the beat of oneold heart. Here is to belong,where a wet wind can wipe offthe dust of wandering, snowthat could melt with the welcome.It’s not far to a fireside yet,kindling stacked, hot soup in the pot,the clock that chimes quiet time,a smoke, drink glowing in the glass,that door always unlocked.

CALLING TIME

They are shadows, these menstalking night-dark pavementslike wraiths beyond my window.

Drifting moths to light, they gofrom stranger talk in soured barsto unwarmed wives or ruined beds

and a world I don’t know walksbroad streets below dull lamplight.A ghost, whose words are breath,

visits, leaving a fine film of wateron an ice-frosted pane. The moonpeers through thin sticks of limbs,

picking out black trees as it sails

behind, between me and brightness,a full moon for the foolish. Wiser

than I once was, madness packs upand goes. There is only night, moon,trees, words that have some meaning.

READING THE BONES

This time it is not the childbut the man – racked and saddledby hot sun. Over broken stone,

alone, he walks. Still uprightthough burdened with the weightthat brings down worlds. Each stepis iron hard, small insects

dart in sharper shadows, cracksopen in the earth, and griefis somewhere else – where water is.

The child he walks with is deadyet he will not set it down.Beyond the touch of hands, heis merciless. Does not look back

to where he stopped last, wetthe child’s mouth – a smear of mist,the almost kiss. Does not look

forward though he goes, a slowsure stepping toward the grave.Proud head, straight back, the painfulribs, stripped sticks of arms, and legs

that walk and walk and walkand are brought down more surelyby the bones I cannot read;

bones he carries on his back.Is it son or daughter, loveor hope, or is he saddled tothe failure of his fatherhood

- the mouth he could not feed,the need he could not fill, a lifehe could not keep – so deep a grief

it cannot be set down. Onand on into the hungry heat,

sweating flies, and every stepan agony of bone and breath.

And I am trying, blindlyto read those bones – of Man,walking his dead child home.