Ivan Head: ‘Boconnoc, Cornwall’, ‘Autumn Figs’, ‘Retinal Maps’

Autumn Figs

My Autumn
becomes a slow succession of ripening Figs,
a hand reaching through bird netting
and finding washed Figs in their skins
as sweet to eat as the ripe incarnadine within.
Two seasons in the red clay soil did all this;
avaricious roots freed from the pot.
And then there are long tresses
of the Willow in the combing sun,
and falls and falls of leaves from
the Yellow and the Claret Ash.
Much then becomes fruitful,
composting at rest on the earth.
If I could further unlock this, then

I could track my soul from transience
through the metaphysics of colour, and taste to theoria

Ivan Head

Retinal Maps

Autumn’s bright Tibouchinas
light up Haberfield streets.
I turn off Google Maps
and set my retina to auto-purple.

I find my way with ease
from flowering purple tree to purple tree.
Unlike the man in Hell
who could only infer
the colour of the Asphodel

I still get these flowers direct and real.

Ivan Head

Boconnoc, Cornwall

Sunlight paused while racing down the hill.
Wind cut-about the clouds for ragged silhouettes.
Then the island Willow lit-up brightly.
Nearby, what farmers left alone
gave perennial Bluebells home.
Hidden birds offered song
and the long path of Cornish flints
light-heavy, at each step glinted.

I hear a subdued stream below the wall
and stop to concentrate on it.
Someone’s husbandry made
oaks renew across the field,
march over it in time;
the old three-aisled church nearby.

Ivan Head