Kathryn Daszkiewicz

but oh the sunshine has a fearful effect on me - it makes me want to take you into a wood over the hill & undress you & kiss the leaf-shadows moving over your body, & love you till you are quite quite dead.
Cecil Day-Lewis, to Rosamund Lehmann
As the broad palms of the horse chestnut
laid claim to her whiteness, he was
touched by their reverence — summer
candles held high as if to see her better.

Heart-shaped leaves of aspen
Chinese-whispered, hissing of lovers
kissing in the grasses. The impotent ash
could only jangle last year's keys.

Now, as bare trees vein the sky
he is taunted by evergreens which fail
to screen a watery winter sun.
And the leaf between

the pages of the book which he slid
laughing from her hands that day
floats from its chapter, a brittle ghost.
And what once danced is stilled.
...

Then, for all I knew, feng shui
might have gone well with noodles.
Our room faced north. I couldn't
see the door. At night, thick curtains
kept a flickering road at bay. Shut out
The Plough. I was water to your fire.
By day a telegraph pole, close to the house,
shot poison chi across the big sash window.

I moved south — across the landing. Now
on windy nights as I watch the birch tree
toss its glittering fleece, the energy's
in free flow. In the distant hills perhaps
a dragon sleeps, while open blinds invite
auspicious stars to spell a future where
alone's not lonely. A thrush calls from the ash.
It is the single birds who sing the most.
...

After months in the far north
they return, like snow buntings,
in a blizzard of wings. I did not
think they could thrive in icy climes
but here they are, searching the wrackline
for drifted seed. When they turned pale,
fell between a rock

and a barren place, they lay
deep in a corrie in a nest lined
with sheep's wool, fur
from a mountain hare.
And down from a ptarmigan
conferring resilience
its chameleon gift.
...

Another stroke, and, as if it were a bird
your swallow vanishes. Flies off

at the start of a bleak season
on the blue scythe of its wings.

Your mind, flitting across some other
sky, is closed to us, our futile

bedside twitterings, is perched
on a cusp between worlds

seeking finer air. While
the dark screen of poplars beyond

the hospital window
obscures our view

of heaven.
...

Mr Lowe is so gangly
he could have splintered
long limb by long limb
from a triptych by El Greco.

Obsessed with green peppers
and sheep skulls he plays
Emmylou Harris and Doobie Brothers
on a rickety turntable,

shows us creaky slides
of The Impressionists. Thighs! Whoa
— thighs! he roars as Gordon Vaughan shows signs
of smirking at a porky Renoir nude.

Paper, he says, is precious.
One afternoon when he nips out
we raid his cupboard.
A pile of matchboxes teeters

falls, unslots its treasure
of dried wasps across the tiles.
Here, there and everywhere
Emmylou trills as we scuffle

on hands and knees gleeful,
and incredulous over the chequered floor;
freeze, like Escher leaves,
as the door edges open.
...

Taut as a drum, you beat
a slow tattoo against my skin.
At each stroke, the guttural utterance

that renders speech redundant;
at each stroke, blue worlds
mute as bruises. Boundaries

blur, as you ink out an indelible territory
where language is pure rhythm
and retreat is no longer an option.
...

Only for connoisseurs
the lapidarist said.
Kept in a drawer.
Not for display
with agate paperweights
bookends of amethyst.

Mosquitoes were your thing.
I wrote a cheque
took home that black speck
in its yellow mausoleum.

This is no mere decorative
imprint of skeleton in rock
but something trapped
as sticky resin dripped
down trunk and stem.

I imagine it on
your bookcase, next
to the Scandinavian condiments
in a studied absence of photographs.
...