Tanka by Bernard Gadd

 

 

Old Defenses



1

Oswestry hill fort

I'm well defended:

Offa's Dyke is near:

at the empty gate

I scarcely think of you



2

Chysauster - they lived

in round rooms of rock

Romans were distant, but you

hunker on the grassy street

fading to sun glint



3

I walk around the ship:

Cutty Sark would run

with a din of sail and rigging .

it's you I hear pace

in the lee?



4

Roundhead cannon

broke these walls, farmers stole stones

a jet fighter brushes clouds

for an instant I stare

with your frown



5

below the stone walls

James Cook navigated

he left reckonings,

a log of last moments .

in your silence gulls cry



6

a Sally Lun

and Earl Grey tea,

thick walls keep everything out .

my full cup's surface is not

memory's mirror



7

guns kept ships from the harbour,

within walls courtyards dazzle .

you never would have come here

surf, sand, rock ledges

too far away



8

no grove remains

at the pool where  they threw

metal and jewels .

do I wish surface glimmer

to show your shape?



9

Constantine watched from these walls

you're no match for him

the new Emperor roars

from battlements 'you

are where? why? why? well?'



10

throngs move on Tower Bridge

between old stone walls

brick bond warehouses:

again again again I glimpse

your bare brisk leg


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creek a vivid green

mangrove leaves dull

tussocks dusty

your back’s a gleam

of sea salt brown and white

 

 

 

wind’s bitter

spray burns

on the pitching  launch

we hold each other

warm and firm

 

 

 

mandarins sat

in forests oblivious of trees

my longing’s to watch with you

winter bush slopes’

morning haze

 

 

 

delight is this

tiny smiling girl

sitting on my belly

at four

in the morning

 

 

 

the wood pigeon’s launch

into flying snaps a pine branch

we all turn to noise

louder than summer’s

waterfall

 

 

 

wave white flattens to brown

the beach stretches

to penisular’s spin drift,

in such salt and heat

flesh can’t be bare

 

 

 

slopes of trees

glint of a harbour

I can’t see clearly enough

without the pallette    

of your speech

 

 

 

under us the blackness

of forest, here, there

clusters of glints

hour after hour

we grip hands

 

 

 

you carry 

silver beet

the stalks are white

as skin

under that wool

 

 

 

grey afternoon

I admire fallen oranges

you scatter

on the turned earth

of our winter plot