Society’s leashed tiger-ballerina,
Tense, coiled spring dragon of
Defence as attack,
In and out of cloud,
In and out of consciousness.
Do we keep her here
With our greedy, silent wishes
When she dreams –
Smiling as she sits
On the republic steps;
Three full-on winter days
On the cold-wind, monotony yard
Feeding cold blue flames
With colder fuels.
Need to check out
My options …
Heading down the grey brick road
Heading to red sunset salvation dreams:
A place in the lottery queue;
Chance to compare journeys, calendars, champions, clocks;
Chance to find pattern and rhyme in random lines and concrete blocks.
Breathe shiver-deep, consider the numbers and companions that
Got us here, the histories that come together now –
In these magical moments …
Sometimes in order to see ahead more clearly
We have to look, hard and long over shoulders:
Chance of a ticket to be there
When we get to face the glory trials,
Stand on the way that other followers have stood
Ready to paint the next steps: red of course!
Curried by gentle
High clouds, gold-fringed
Tailings of the mined-out
Dreams and wishes of
Gone-world gods and ghosts
Roll across the blue geometry: Continue reading
Ferocious, combative and, as usual, uninvited
The Witch-Wind bustles into my
Pale world of blue, iron-flat skies.
She is familiar, perhaps, but unexpected: Continue reading
On the railway-edge of
The borders of town,
January’s watchman lowers
Industrial warehouse evening shutters
On a wet gone-along day.
Fierce red light beaming down
From somewhere near-to-God
Walks across the audience and
We glow like the embers that
Ring the eyes of a hunting harrier.
Be certain-sure that the full
Treasure-moon also rises; that
elven-blued stars wing across autumn skies
In the rich fairy lands; the realms we
May be lucky enough to glimpse
Only behind our eyelids;
Beyond our fragile, tip-toe dreams.
Where sails the moon this evening?
For it must be she: patient,
One-eyed queen and governess
Of summer heavens …
That fills the woodbine bugle
With warm narcotics that
Hypnotise and bewilder
Moths and mortals.
This timekeeper and turner
Of tides and histories
Has lessons for all who know
How to give attention;
Focus on her sky screen scribbles:
Learn of circles, times and joys,
Faces that change, masks that
Mean all and nothing,
Secrets that aren’t,
Dreams that should be,
Power in doubt and doubt in power.
Concentrate, my friend, for your
Life will be the test.
Last night’s rain,
The fence-creeping wet-poor fox,
The savage dreams of screaming men
Are all behind me now.
But their faces remain:
Dangled before me when I close my eyes;
I do not recognise a single one.
Am I supposed to?
Were they trying to pass on
A terrible secret?
Or had they just uncovered
The unholy lie?
I have no idea …
Their words, framed by desperate lips
Were lost to me, to everyone,
Their voices stolen.
Wise men say I cannot
Dream in colour.
If it is so, then black and white are
Cruelly vivid and dreadfully revealing.
Morning-of-April skies press the
New blue pages
– Spring’s first chapter –
Against my unglazed windows.
Adventures in the life of an English allotment
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