WRITTEN WORD – A Book Of Days / Magritte’s Midday Moon / Chords & Wine

‘An exuberant intellect.’ Roger Garfitt


Wake up drink tea think meditate plan day

Get up get washed get dressed
draw blinds
make beds sort clothes
think… washing in
think… washing out

Scales, more scales, and a piece or two
practice makes perfect, doesn’t it?

That’s right, question everything…
this is what we do

It’s December and children are home from school
sleeping in, dreaming of Christmas

Husbands are working, driving, negotiating
making the world go round
we need them to do this

I strive to make it work too
with a good song or a good poem
endlessly re-editing a single phrase

Housework is easier

Pack shoes for return
wrong size
clean loos do bins

A father dies and there are roses
and a funeral to be arranged
and mothers to be watched over

At 10:15 a daughter is on a train
travelling away from you

Days burn
you open the blind expecting darkness but it is bright
we are not good at dressing in the cold
no matter what you do
the lines will take their melancholy stance
they have dug their heels in
they feel there are already far too many
of their kind in the world

But they cannot help themselves
still and still, they multiply, fly, slip and fall

The dream is feverish now
its breathing fast and shallow
with a rattle at the throat
it may not last the night

© Jools Heyes (as published in Obsessed With Pipework [Flarestack] issue 59, Summer 2012)



Small wonder that I eat myself
to gnaw the flesh comes naturally enough
in the break of each strangely sumptuous
mythological morning

Tattered crows claw the necks of the streetlamps
and my garden burgeons with weeds

I can feel them grow

I wonder
if the leylandii we planted
will ever stop
will go on and on
and up and up
like giant Giacometties
in taut parallel
piercing the sky
scratching out the stars
casting gigantic shadows back to earth

little clouds and aeroplanes
in their sickle branches
and tossing them down like confetti
to ruin the neighbours’ neat intentions

And all the while
pavilioned in splendour
our little band plays on
every song
mute as a mystery
under Magritte’s Midday Moon

© Jools Heyes (as published in Obsessed With Pipework [Flarestack] issues 59 & 60, Summer 2012)



I love the man
who walks the grass
this morning in my garden

Who places his workbench
on uneven stones, with care

To carve the wood
that makes my house a home

Cuts on his slender hands

Hands that weave me chords from air
and bring me deep red wine
for supper

© Jools Heyes (as published in Obsessed With Pipework [Flarestack] issue 67, 2014)