Bordeaux Bay

Bordeaux Bay
Watercolour by Tony Taylor http://www.paintingbreaksguernsey.com

Sunday, 4 September 2016

GUERNSEY WEEK: KENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS

This week I’ve featured a number of my Guernsey poems from the 2010 collection, A Guernsey Double, a slim volume that showcased the work of Brighton-based writer, Peter Kenny and myself.
Here’s an opportunity to read a couple of Peter’s poems from that publication.
Peter Kenny is a freelance writer whose credits include poetry, stage plays and musical collaborations. He is co-founder of Telltale Press.

You can find out more about his work here:- https://peterkenny.co.uk








 


NIGHT WALK

The whine of the moped’s engine
diminishes in the dark parish
and stupidly I spook myself
imagining the scuff of shoes
in this moonless night, motile


with satellites and Perseids

that skid across the starry sky
like momentary omens.

I reach an island of streetlight
as bats burst its halo
and my shadow is elastic.
It dials its dark around me
yearning down the blank rouette
where my feet can only follow.

Guernsey, you are my safest home
but I know there are black books
stored under your floorboards
and Le Gardien du Tombeau
looks down on many secrets:
your soil is the ash of witches;
dead slaves lie in labyrinths
the Nazis groined in granite.


There’s something I’m half suspecting;
that someone else is with me here
with eyes black-barred like those of goats,
someone who’d command me
to descend - past the closed cafe -
to the uneasy midnight sea.

But what scares me most is me.
breaking some private curfew
I’m half laughing, half afraid
for tonight is not the last night
I will be drawn into the dark.
I still have time. I can return
to a room with a bright desk light
and type and type and type till dawn.












 
TIMEPIECE

Apple-damp from storage,
all the way from Guernsey,
the box is borne indoors
like a child’s coffin.
I lift my grandfather’s clock
from a nest of newsprint
and know that it’s broken,
hearing its unhinged slink,
a shifting skeleton:
spring, wheel and pinion.
Then I picture him
winding the clock
and, from its motion work,
imagine a spring uncoiling;
the syringing probe
of a strange mosquito
that drained him
of days.

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