Tesla Poem in 2 Parts

(Part of his nightly routine was to walk
to the cathedral to feed the pigeons)

One am as usual, stopped still,
to let rock doves feral fall
full of intra-cloud lightning.

Red eyes and feathered air drumming
become, and night’s plasma quiets him
lit as if St Elmo held him.

Nikola’s eyes are thick with lack
of sleep, rubbing prickly static
wet that could be blood seep

from scratched caruncules peach
stone hard. Tenuous birds burn
phosphorescent, gather at his hand.

Two River Adur Churches

It can be observed that the sparks
that fire between the soles and the earth
are as blue as a fusing of flints,
Saxon flints, and a river in the folds of clay

St Botolph’s.

Headstones and buttressed
Solidity sit in a sparkle field

Of light like an intertidal
Pool, of faith the tide will

Return. Closer, harsh grass’s
Friction is full of the power line fizz

Of crickets, but within and beneath
The chalk-like stone of the chancel arch

(Echoing downs), they go unheard.
Any opening, a saltwater eroded

Abrasion may be enough for grace
To enter. Sit, wait and try not,
Here in the cool, to let sleep overtake.

Coombes (undedicated)

A lightning rod disturbs
                remains of human

under squat bell tower,
             a priest,
                 birds-foot trefoil
                      and polite reburial,

that thing that separates
                    us from the beasts,

a ceremonious treatment of the dead
              long left by selves
                  in their continual falling
                       to briefly light the radio sky,

as they burst granular glissandos
                   of shortwave decay,
                                            sferics and
                               moths blue haloed charged and spiralling,
      yearning for re-earthing.

The rod is fixed to the broken
circle, in the rain the furrowed
field behind the celebrant
smeared with leaden prayer.


First published in Tears In The Fence Magazine.