January 2002
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the Water of Leith
 

1

The Water of Leith
is not the Water of Leith
the Water of Leith
is spate surge and eddy
is change set in concrete
at 14 frames per second
 

2

The Water of Leith
is a wicked movie
starring Churn Chuck
Storm Sturm and Drang
with the Ultimate Rocks
playing in the rhythm section
 

3

in The Water of Leith
the outlaw flow whooshes
down from the hills
flashing its wild spurs
whooping and waving
its million gallon hat
 

4

The Water of Leith
is black white and sepia
unpredictable enough
to jump from the spool
and run off the screen
in a skein of brown foam
 

5

at The Water of Leith
Society Members can
get in for a discount
as long as they present
their cards and are dressed
in appropriate clothes
 

6

the main love theme
of The Water of Leith
requires a white moon
in the arms of Zelkova
bridges to arch with longing
weirs to whisper with desire
 

7

swallows jink and dance
across The Water of Leith
while kingfishers in slow
motion have lethe-wards
sunk in an iridescence
of turquoise and silver
 

8

the Water of Leith
is hemlock St Johns wort
dock buttercup  daisy
honeysuckle cocksfoot
St Anne's lace ryegrass
and popcorn in living colour
 

9

the Water of Leith
is tarata flowers inanga
an oak leaf brown trout
it is one one large bottle
of Speights Old Dark
in a supermarket trolly
 

10

when The Water of Leith
ends the theme returns
and the audience leaves off
and stands in the darkness
while the  credits roll swiftly
scrolling down into the harbour


sad hand
 

he lifted his sad hand
slowly deprecatingly

"It was a terrible movie‚" he said
"Terrible in the sense of terrible:
one by one or in small groups
the audience disappeared

they could not be witness
to the terrible things
people had been compelled
to see to do or to eat

they did not want to imagine
the unimaginable"

he had been the last to leave
having stayed out of duty
 

  *

"I am going to disappear for a while,"
Father Louis had said, waving

"Have a Pepsi or something
and we'll meet later for questions"

afterwards they flew his body back from Bangkok
with the bodies of the dead from Viet Nam
 

  *

the sea wall followed
the line of bays
like an arabesque

and the narrow road
ribboned around the coast
a road rising and falling
like the breath of stone

stone upon stone
had formed the wall
all the way to the harbour mouth
a drystone jigsaw
of stone placed upon stone
to bar the hard insistent sea
from the softness of the land

placed by artisans
from the north
with heavy breath
and aching backs

and sad hands


Portugal
 

could we have
the height of the plum tree
the measure of its blossom
this fine day

we would open our arms
in acceptance in offering
the wind warm
between our fingers

could we have the age
of this grey stone on the hillside
we would be older
the news of the world in our arms

could we have Portugal
the white city by the blue sea
the scent of red geraniums
we would listen to its music

we would know
whether we were walking
through these angels
or they were walking
through us


jazz at the Robbie Burns
 

1 keyboard

slumped somnolent
fingers in his eyes
then eyes in his fingers

seeing the fat duck
which may have been a small goose
chasing it up this creek that creek

getting away with it
knowing the lie of the land
like the back of his hands

willing the fat duck
to fluff its white feathers
and lift its white wings

lift its fat body
into the smoky air
 

2 flugel

he steps in decisively
lifts the horn like a flag
and sweeps it from side to side

people shuffle and shift gear
move off the smooth surface
to negotiate the rough

like getting a smile from the barmaid:
milk from a bull blood from a stone
wine from the icy tit of charity

no matter because now
he's shaking the springs
rocking into ruts
easing it all with bitumen

until finally
he lays the horn aside
to scatter gravel
 

3 drums

the syllables of the river
bubble over rocks

the black streets
walk into the night
carefully mouthing
the words they've put together

remembering every footstep
every slow shuffle
every panicked run
 

4 bass

below the wheeling gulls
at the Taeri mouth
a fishing boat crossing the bar
flaky turquoise like sun on water
salt-white wood and rods raised
to salute the evening

the diesel throbbing
in the shivery wind
ripples walking across the water
and licking at the banks

all this vanishing
into a varnished sky


up in the valley
 

The brush possesses four substances:
muscle, flesh, bone, and breath.
  Chin Hao (T'ang painter)
 

the room is bricked
plastered overcast
with white paint
like flaking clouds

sunlight is not
permitted here
nor sound
  there
are no echoes

beyond the faint
footsteps on the
dusty floorboards
all is still
       chilled

entering this space
you come into an
emptiness your being
does not disturb

colour would not exist
but for the faint hint
of rust on the four hooks
set into the ceiling beams

listen to them
listen to their
unmoving shadows
 


(c) James Norcliffe.  All Rights Reserved.