Midnight in Caravanland

Ross Thompson
When you switched off the television, the sound continued
            to play
like a jazz standard half-remembered, a twinge in the brain,
            a needle lost in the hay.
You pulled on a jacket, and slipped into a night crackling
            with static
and the promise of rain. The moon was high. Playground railings
            contracted
and creaked as they leaked out the remainder of the day’s heat.

The air parted like velveteen as you followed the noise
            of revelry
wafting like a mistral: the magnified whispers and moans
            reverberating
within a dome of cloudless sky. Disembodied voices
            beckoned you
to the promenade: the curved spine of a sleeping giant
             cradling the reflection
of a coruscating universe resting on pin pricks.

Beside the shore, a lone bonfire flickered in the water,
            around which
footloose figures gallivanted, wavering as they slipped
            through each
other, sharing thin strips of glowing embers that they raised
             to hidden lips.
Squinting, you snapped the tableau into focus, then balanced
             the flickering
flame on your fingertip. A magic trick. A geocache
             of image and sound
only you found then gifted back to the trembling darkness
            when you closed your fist.

Shell

By Ross Thompson
My sister said
           that if I held
                       the dislodged nautilus
                                    to the side of my head

           I would hear the wash
                       of a distant ocean
                                    as if eavesdropping
                                             on a private conversation.

Although I knew it wasn’t
           really the sea
                       but the sound of my own breath
                                    I listened
                                            nonetheless.

Once I unlocked that box
           by holding the conch
                         to my ear like a receiver
                                    I became a true believer.

There was no way to stop
           the secrets of remote shores
                       roaring forth.

I should have known
           that not every open door
                       is an invitation. 
Audio recording of ‘Midnight in Caravanland’, written and read by Ross Thompson
Audio recording of ‘Shell’, written and read by Ross Thompson
Ross Thompson

Ross Thompson is a writer and Arts Council award recipient from Bangor, Northern Ireland. His debut poetry collection Threading The Light is published by Dedalus Press. His work has appeared on television, radio and the Poetry Jukebox alongside a wide range of publications such as AtriumDear ReaderThe Honest UlstermanLunateNeologismOnePopshot and The Trouvaille Review. Most recently, he wrote and curated A Silent War, a collaborative audio response to the COVID-19 pandemic that has been adapted by Northern Ireland Screen into a series of short archival films. He is currently preparing a second full length book of poems.

Photo credit: Hanny Naibaho