Five Poems by Grant Shimmin

 

Reflection in motion

The words seem plucked from the heart of a tribute 

Gasped now to his riding mate 

as the gradual incline steepens

the exertion making of them a public proclamation by default 

“There’s no doubt my Mum could have

made a major contribution in some field.

“She just turned all her energy in

to her family, being a home-maker…”

Hard riding carries the rest away 

but I’ve heard enough to wonder

Has he just used those words to a gathering?

Is he riding through his grief?

I hope not. His mother sounds remarkable 

A fog of joy

Fog so thick light gushes from street lamps

onto the road’s wet glisten

Where yesterday’s tyres

have spread yesterday’s mud

into the track print of a detective’s dreams

But fleetingly; the rain returns later

I descend the vapoured valley cautiously 

walking on Cloud It’s-a-long-time-till-nine

To the place where even at this hour

curved cardboard embraces steaming caffeine infusions

that wrap my fogged brain in a soft morning hug

As I walk on, reviving

the street lamps’ haloes highlight 

the silhouettes of the emerging hills

taking shape against the backdrop

of a twittering torrent of new day joy

Embarrassed by majesty 

Embarrassment on two wheels

Humiliation at, well no, not at high speed 

And that’s the point

I’m sensibly dressed for the mission

Head-down focused on the morning commute

When she coasts past imperiously, office-attired

Skirt over leggings, all-business blouse and

high-heeled black pumps propelling pedals at pace

Should I be grateful it’s not stilettos

puncturing my pride

As I fall further and further behind?

A red light brings me closer

To saddlebags, floral, flapping; not filled for this trip

Before green sets her going, pulling away

As I pant on behind, stew in my shame;

But then, she is faced with a light set to change

and I watch open-mouthed as she lowers her head

hunches down in the saddle and flies

What a sight; it’s majestic, it’s thrilling, it’s seared on my mind

When they ask how my ride was, I’ll have just one word

Magnificent

 

Landing at the old Hong Kong airport, 1997

How much grime is gathering across those acres of wind-flapped washing

As the plane descends through this high-rise canyon

The latest of myriad metal birds to take this approach 

The roar lowering as engines spew fumes

onto shirt fronts and rattle windows?

How do the people ever sleep

Living in the walls of a canyon of uninterrupted cacophony 

that seem barely beyond the reach

of this mechanical invader’s wings?

What if it hits a wall one day?

What if they do?

Trail shoes 

They’re the sandals of surefootedness 

The grippiest shoes I’ve owned

But as the sodden path unspools

it seems certain they’ve soled me short

They’re suddenly slippers

And I may end up

with my feet up

Unceremoniously 

The sunshine from up here

is silently, sensuously stirring

as the afternoon calls forth Spring

But to stare is to slide

if I’m not standing still

To step semi-focused is to skate 

or to stumble 

or both, simultaneously 

On a trail of uncertainty 

Familiar yet unseen this path

stretched out sloppily before me

Downhill has been downstream 

I sense with surest certainty

Till at slope-gentling trail it splayed muddily

Shortened strides bear me forth then

eyes fixed on the slick stretch ahead

As prayers rise that my soles 

will not abandon me

Grant Shimmin is a New Zealand poet and writer who grew up in South Africa and loves writing about humanity and the natural world. An editor for Does it Have Pockets?, he has work in journals including Roi Faineant Press, Bull, Stone Poetry Quarterly, Cool Beans Lit and Querencia Press.