Bones of Rainbows



                These are the stones,

            Where hooded scavengers

              Each day pick apart the

                 Bones of rainbows,

                 The distances that

               Halted the march of

         Empire’s greedy ambition;

             That defined a nation,

      The place where the comeback

            That ended in nought,

     Began to generate excitement.

           But the breathing here,

      The tales that were born here

     and weave, like treacle smoke,

     In and out of lost eagle winds

     And wool-hung rushes were


            Worth it all …

            Worth it all

      And so much more.


24/5/2013 (Birdoswald Fort)

Photosources: Top photo:

Second photo:

Earth Calling Gort …

It’s never the soldiering
That kills the soldier;
It’s the injustices that
Keep coming back
Because we are only
Casually vigilant.

It’s not the wars
That corrupt childhoods,
Feed sorrow’s pitiful scarecrows
With black rumour;
It’s the barenaked duplicity
Of politicians;
The crowing,
Rapacious greed that
They try, so poorly,
To hide.

photo sorces: top photo: Imperial War Museum, second photo:

Fort Laramie

This prairie wind,

Chinook’s restless daughter,

Blows dried grass wigs

Over shells of senselessly-manic ants.

These are the plains

That fed the herds,

The greed and the

Dreams of men.

The plains endure;

The herds, the dreams

Are gone.