Listener. Lemn Sissay

sound before a dropping latch,

      The sound of looking back – the 22nd catch.

      This is a celebration of sound,

      Words said after the phone’s put down,

      After the door’s shut at the editor’s cut –

      Thoughts held after the word ‘but …’;

      This is the sound before death;

      In the beginning it wasn’t the word,

      It was breath.

       MOVING TARGET

      As long as they think they can push you

      Around with unwritten laws

      Saying which kind of car you can drive,

      Which woman you can date,

      Which occupation you can take,

      Or which street you can live in,

      You are not safe.

      As long as they think they can push you

      Around with unwritten laws

      Saying how your name should be shortened,

      Which food you should eat,

      Which way you should wear your hair,

      Which house you should live in,

      Which language you should use,

      You are not safe.

      As long as they think you are a target

      They will take aim.

      As long as they think they can push you

      Around with unwritten laws

      About which country you should live in,

      Which smell you should prefer,

      Which restaurants you should eat in,

      Which places you should go to at night,

      Which cricket team you should support,

      Or which route your child or friend should

      take to school,

      You are not safe.

      As long as they think you are a target

      They will take aim.

      Do not get used to these thoughts,

      Do not engage with them,

      They will devour you.

      Do not wear them or grow with them,

      Do not challenge them or walk in them,

      Do not counter them.

       LAYING THE TABLE

      We should prepare for arguments,

      Lay down the tablecloth

      And silently place the cutlery

      In exactly the right place.

      We should serve each other’s food

      And eat with our hands,

      Pick at the chicken,

      Maul the potatoes.

      We should then wipe our mouths

      With the tablecloth and begin.

       PERFECT

      You are so perfect

      When you kick them the leaves flit to the trees,

      Look back to you and applaud.

      You are so perfect

      Branches part in forests to share sun’s shine,

      Squirrels watch you between acorns,

      Foxes wake.

      You are so perfect

      Your winter coat buttons itself and hugs your heart,

      Library books unfurl on tables, stretch

      And wait for you to walk past.

      Fast winter wind daren’t touch you

      But can’t help brush your hair.

      You are so perfect

      Rivers have built their own bridges,

      Knowing that one day you’ll walk across them –

      Just to catch your reflection they left a pile of stones for

      you to throw.

      And the waves carry each stone to the bed, count them,

      Look up at you and applaud.

      You are so perfect

      Traffic lights time themselves days before you arrive

      So your stride won’t be broken and the cars can rest

      And the world can stop.

      A table outside the café lays itself to the waiter’s amazement

      Knowing that a man will stop for a coffee,

      Knowing that you will walk past at 3.30 p.m.,

      And he’d been waiting for you all of his life too.

       GAMBIAN HOLIDAY MAKER

       LISTENER

      And if you were the evaporating tears

      Then I would be the developing cloud.

      There, the sound of rain,

      The sound of the between-us-sea,

      The shingle shore gently fills our footsteps.

      I have searched for you my entire life.

      We have stood on opposite shores

      Listening to under-sea wails.

      No translations as yet, but this.

      I lie upon the earth-floor

      As a lion might in deep dusk-sun.

      Here I hear all the footsteps of the world

      Reverberate in the beneath-me-rocks,

      Trying to find your first person singular steps,

      Trying to find a sentence in a history,

      But the needle glints in the golden haystack

      Of dawn at the same time a strike of sunlight

      Lances its eye. The world is smaller,

      The larger my knowledge – still.

      Standing, I hear the sun rise,

      Not the birds of morning nor the cock crowing.

      The cars coughing the footsteps of early workers

      Muffled in the red dust trudging through sleepless mystery

      But I hear the actual sun rising.

      And as a sea can turn to dust before the eyes