CONVERSATIONALISTS

In the corner of the pub that looks out
on to the harbour at night,
masts of boats drift; dark crosses

hanging in a mist
that annoys the oyster fishermen.
At this table microbiologists

and makers of nature-films
drink beer in the din of Stewart Island
locals and a juke box, and talk

about the intricacies and intrigues
of giant squid, their small brain,
their looks - ghostly, ugly

(yet it could be argued,
mesmeric, mysterious). Of tigers
in the snow in Siberia.

Of how many Type-A scientists
there are. Of the detective work
of research. Of the raw tenderness

of raped oceans - straits dredged,
raked, scraped clean of aeons of coral.
Steve goes out for another fag. Jane tells us

about her macaw back home
in Santa Monica; how to wake her up
it picks and pings her sleep-mask.

LIKE A TREE

Look at yourself at fifty-one in some changing-room mirror. How generous the double helpings over the wiry frame that used to be more obvious. How much there now to seize with both hands. Like a tree, the older the wider. Look! How much life has grown on you.

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