I am here,
Though not consciously invited:
Red-ghost guest
At year’s-end party.
I quicken mascaraed pulses,
Monthly Archives: December 2013
The Passing Traffic
From the frozen-gutter pulpit
Outside the chase-road Church
Of the Old Blow-Down Birch
The animated, grizzled-curate crow
Rants and roars at all
The passing traffic,
Mischief and Silver
The Value
Will there be more change
After the last change?
Will it be worth the having?
Will it show the real value
Of what we had?
Of what we gave away,
What, perhaps we lost?
Who will wear the target shirt
Now my time has been served?
Will they wear it
With strength, abandon
And casual pride
The way I wished I had
When I had the chance?
A Clean Message
Endless patience
Practices the archer,
Alongside the mechanical skills –
So necessary –
But mostly the waiting.
Hazel
She stretches long slim limbs
Across the paths
Tipped by fingers wind-stirred fingers.
December-sun blued catkins
“We Are Not Rubbish Pickers*”
Sat back earlier today to watch some mind-numbing pre-Christmas telly. Seemed to be a good idea after some usual seasonal stress.
But what I settled on, after some channel hopping was disturbing, wonder-filled and astounding, even though I had missed the first half an hour or so.
A documentary film entitled Waste Land.
