Greg McLaren

Torii
From ‘Not being in Kyoto’
For Rachel Gough

The floating torii appears only at low tide —
there you are in wet shoes, the red torii behind,
the rain covering the mud, concrete and air.
The torii is an architect’s pi.

There you are in wet shoes, behind the red torii,
moss the tourists slip on: the not-so-floating Torii.
The torii is an architect’s elaboration of pi.
Layers of torii, gating off the sacred

moss that tourists slip on: the now-floating torii:
behind it, across water: the city, sacred bricks,
layers of torii, gating off the sacred
tarmac. Really, the city faces the shrine,

behind it, across water: the city, sacred bricks,
and a blurry torii in the water.
In reality, the city faces the shrine, seeking
entry, crossing silty water, drifting on muck,

and only a blurry torii in the water.
Gaijin rugged-up in hoodies and scarves
seek entry, walk in silt from the water’s drifting muck
to the slow hum of water, the clacking of cameras

and chattering gaijin, in hoodies and scarves,
watching lichen and barnacles in a slow climb —
the slow hum of water, the clacking of cameras.
In the thin strip of shadow beneath the arch:

lichen and barnacles in a slow climb up its columns,
that narrow roof sheltering nothing
but the thin strip of shadow beneath the arch:
the floating torii only appears at low tide.

Pit time
for Andy Bull

The mine whistles set the clocks
and buried the men.
A fire at Hebburn No.1,

and smoke palls
from the tunnel openings
like a drop-off

in union membership.
Kids and housewives clanged
pots and pans at the scabs

on their way to the picket line.
Near the asphalt car park
by the railway,

and the low log fence,
the War Memorial’s obelisk —
another stone, marking more men

beneath the ground.
In local museums in back rooms
of schools and libraries

hang turn-of-the-century photos:
aerial views of mine huts and pit heads,
taken atop the nearest hill.

Asbestos breathes in the rafters,
sepia drips from the corners.
My father’s father

just shunted the coal skips,
struck when his mates struck,
and stayed out of trouble.

At the age he was
when he was put on as a pit-boy,
I was thinking of cars, or trains,

and how far away and how quickly
they would take me
past that close ring of towns,

a picket-line of sacked workers,
rugged-up like my grandfather,
dying of organ failure

as the mines closed down
across the coalfields,
sitting on the verandah at Abermain,

gazing out
at the bush through the scaffolding
of the new houses going up across the road.

From the cutting below street level,
steam trains chew coal from the mines to the coast

and pour smoke from the ground,
thick as the black from a pit fire.