WRITING MY STORY

With the stroke of a pen,
they enabled me to write the story,
gave a framework on which
I could hang all manner
of dreams and assumptions,
inviting a search I never
quite got around to making.

I wandered the beaches
of Estoril in my dreams,
stalked the avenues of Lisbon,
looking for a familiar face,
but found only ghosts.

With the stroke of a swab
inside my cheek, a vial
of saliva mailed, the story
came apart, and a new story
slowly unfolded, gone forever
was Iberia, replaced by Scotland
and Ireland, Wales, Norway
and Germany, and my dreams
were filled with the music
of the bodhran and Highland pipes.

SUNDAY MORNING

It is Sunday
we sit in the living room
each with our lattes
she brushing the cat.
I sat on the sofa
with the Sunday Times.
We are listening
to radio Hele Norge,
unsure why, the
Norwegian caroming
around our ears,
the speakers noticing
nothing different.
We’re not quite sure
how the weather is
in Lillehammer today,
but it’s sunny here.
Neither of us
pauses to wonder
what Archimedes would
make of it all.