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Plague Sonnet
In a Time of Pestilence
My thin long arms stretch wide, the distance friends
and strangers, cousins too, must keep away
if we’re to stay alive, so when it ends –
they’re not sure how, but think it must, one day –
we’ll all of us ( those left, that is) come close
again, much closer than before, and find
the world’s far kindlier than we supposed,
and might have seen, had doubt not made us blind.
But, for now, I’ll wrap my arms around you
and halfway round myself, take you to bed
and huddle there, however long the curfew
lasts, hope to keep at bay what lies ahead.
And if it comes, to catch us arm in arm,
let’s pray it wants us both and halves the harm.
Outcasts
Behind one grain of sand, held at arm’s length
towards the sky, two thousand galaxies
are suddenly obscured, each one a home
to billions of stars, planets and their moons.
I could scoop a desert with my hands
to blot the night, yet still leave looking down
more stars than sand in all the deserts left,
more galaxies than eyes to make them out.
We’re specks of dust on dust, yet with the mind
to know as much, to calculate the scale
of our disgrace and guess its likely start
and end. That’s something, at least – a candle
raised against the dark to comfort us,
a sort of prayer for what we thought we were.
Sonnets for a Wife
At Banyuls-sur-Mer
That whitewashed hilltop chapel, the town square
waking under plane trees, far-off mountains
bleached by sun - all of this within a year
we'll just recall as France, somewhere, or Spain
perhaps, its distinctive sounds, smells and sights
stirred together in memory's melting pot:
half a lifetime's hill towns, grandes places, resorts
left traceless, names and places peeled apart.
Much as you and I, love, since student days
have blended, the one into the other,
until the telling flavour that endures
is singular - of each of us, yet neither.
And now I've little taste for who I was
without you, nor yen for being otherwise.
Stoic
...and these, my many complaints,
I should keep at the door
like callers on a wintry night,
spoken to with courtesy,
even a smile;
but never invited in
for the warmth of the house,
to stretch out in its intimacy
of scattered shoes
and simmering pots,
half-read forgotten books,
coats cast across settees,
faded anniversaries on the mantelshelf.
They will call again tomorrow
and the following nights,
hankering for the heat of our fire,
plausible and cousinly.
Yet still I'll keep the chain across
full-stretch
for fear I should soften
and let them in.
Betty
Betty, my entrancing love of '66,
Swept auburn hair and hornrim specs,
Cheekbones rounded wide beneath brown eyes –
Or maybe blue – ripe lips that tantalise
Me yet, and buoyant breasts in turtlenecks;
You held our mischief and our minds transfixed.
But I was only nine, you twenty-three,
I think, that summer with our desks ranged out of doors;
The only lust I knew was for my name
Sprung on those lips each week, your lisped acclaim
For my fantastic tales, no doubt their flaws
Quite clear to you, though sacrosanct to me.
And now I've not one single page that's graced
With your 'Well done!', no end of term report
To say I'm going far – I'm too long gone;
Just half-imagined memories to linger on,
And in amongst them flares this heartless thought –
All trace of our farewell has been effaced,
As though one day you'd simply faded from our sight.
And whether life was kind to you or cold
I'll never know, never send you solace
Nor advice when hopes leap blind or wingless;
Just stand by, like a father, unconsoled
And helpless to know you are, at least, alright.