Neighbour

He’s choppin’ at the strings

With intelligent-blues hands

Swappin’ up words ’bout

Love, the Devil and autumn

But beneath all the fury –

Raised voice, clenched fist;

Beyond the witch-gypsy mask

He still picks vegetables for

The local church harvest.

Iron Harvest

Crops sown so many years ago:
Across miles,
One way,
Then returned,

Echo for echo:
Stony ground,
Killing fields,
Soft impact
Confusing
Simple fuses.
Mental blocks, reparations,
Seeds wait, forgotten:
Messages gone astray,
History not getting through.
Quietly, she leaves the shop
Walks numbly past lists of names.
The bell on the spring
Rings for a long, long time.
Iron harvest still being gathered.

Ironbridge.

Work-a-day sun high burnin’

Growin’ dull, respectful red and cider-cold;

Dawn’s melody slowly turnin’

Becoming familiar, restful, old.

Harvest hopes answered

Ripening to warm-honey gold:

English: The Ironbridge

Friends will always know each other –

If their stories be honestly told –

That  distance and language matter not

When time and hearts be weighed and sold.

30/7/2013