Collision Course ©
We dip its beak in water,
Bring it back to flesh and feather.
Mercifully, the neck is not broken.
One bird, newly fledged,
And beyond parental control,
Flying smack into cruel glass.
٭ ٭ ٭
I would have left things at that,
Content to have played a merciful God
In front of my younger children.
But then you take a pot-shot
With your airgun,
And only by luck, miss.
As you battle with the dark side,
And rid your teens of humour,
There is no therapeutic water dip;
Nor do gentle giants, eyes agog,
Will you into fairy-tale flight.
Between needle and black-out,
You flicker on the edge of humanity,
And watch me die.
In the moon-dog madness
Of the full quarter,
Pagan gods are worshipped,
And golden calves set up.
The asp is worn as necklace,
The spindle as finger ring.
Now the tower has partially collapsed,
Saplings grow in the vestry,
And nettles in the nave.
‘Danger – Keep Out’ –
The rubric could have been penned
By the Devil himself.
God is the hole in the roof
Where the carols get through.
Redundant church Redundant prayer
And a pensioned-off vicar.
Where is your Living Word now,
Son of Man?
* * *
I cannot see the face of the child
Who intercedes for me.
Will not the moon become cradle again,
To rock the Infant Prince?
Will not the stars
Tease out the prophecies
Of the Magi,
And turn desert song
Into hymn of praise?
Now the very drains
Become baptismal water,
Purified by Love.
And the cracked bell chimes
At the moment of Eucharist.
In our hearts and in our mouths,
New prayers consecrate the rubble.
Love Letter ©
We don’t do platonic,
You and I –
Were always meant to be lovers.
And if I love you for a day,
All the world’s sonnets will flicker
Across my brain,
Set up strobe lighting.
I shall be sectioned for reciting Spenser
In the supermarket.
And if I love you for a month,
A long far holiday month,
Then every candle will be gutted
In every public place,
Unable to cope with the hurricane
Of our passion.
We don’t do platonic,
You and I –
Lovers for a circle of suns
And a cycle of seasons.
Yes, the eternity of a year.
I will have learnt your ways
By then,
How your eyes say yes
When your lips do not move,
How your fingers play Chopin
Across my soul.
It will be like tongues of fire
Where the only language is silence.
That moon, Stalin,
Was it sensual as a lover,
Or sickle-shaped?
Did it entice you through the mist,
Or snarl like a bandit?
All tenderness died with Kato.
* * *
What use are lullabies
To the Orphans of the Terror?
They are vapid laments
Taken up by the aether.
What use indeed are lullabies?
The strong man rids himself of ghosts.
Enter Voroshilov, to outlaw doubt.
Reduce the age of criminal guilt
To twelve, just twelve.
Girls and boys stay in today,
The hangman’s noose is out to play.
* * *
There is no mountain,
But the desert of oppression.
Enchanting moon,
Can you remember that day
When a revolutionary
Wrote you a poem?
Were you sensual as a lover?
Or did you glare with his insanity?
Just now
The celandines are at smile,
And the forgotten gravel heap
Is covered with yellow.
Every March it is the same,
An open Treasury
After winter’s penny candle.
There are not enough smiles
To describe the wonder I feel.
And then you turn towards me,
Woman of the dark secrecy,
And I know an abundance
Of celandines.
I cannot tell
What it is in your smile
So undoes me;
Only this,
That when we kiss
It is like the rain
Touching the celandines,
Very gently.
Remembrance ©
The day my father died
You sought to embrace me,
But I pushed you away
As though something unclean
Had passed between us.
There was no grey
To the all-alone sky,
Just a loud blue
That commanded
Unnatural happiness.
I looked to the hills,
But they were broken-backed,
And could not be retuned.
The day my father died
Your hurt eyes spoke
Across the null-and-void,
But I had nothing left to give.
The teacups tinkled
With mindless laughter,
And the eyes of the clock
Were countersunk:
We passed a silent evening,
Shrieking with unspoken words.
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