Jamie Grant: Two Poems

Clouds Like an Ice Shelf

Clouds like an ice shelf; then, higher,

a narrow window of blue

beneath more swirling clouds. Winds tear

the blooms

off the gnarled magnolia tree

and among the leaves of the taller

gumtrees the winds roar in one’s ear;

the wall

beyond the garden creates an echo effect

as if a jet plane were landing

in those trees. And then, in fact,

ending

the illusion, an actual jet plane

appears in the sky,

and slides in slow motion

beside

the shelf of cloud, trailing its

roar like the wind, until

that motion makes time seem at

a standstill.

The wind dies. For moments

beyond any measurement, the numbers

on the clock appear frozen.

Numbness

creeps through the limbs of trees,

before once again the clouds move

sideways, and the day’s business

resumes.

Jamie Grant

LONDON

A grey London street, crowded

with the English, their buttoned coats

and pinched expressions,

looking at their boots

to avoid noticing the drizzle-coloured

sky over England’s grey roof-slates;

a dismal, cold nation.

But then, just where Regent Street’s

wedding cake buildings curve, the sun

begins to emerge. As the light

touches the brickwork, smiles

come out on the faces of everyone:

sun on the misty English roof-tiles,

and it seems the place can be all right.

Jamie Grant