I Dare You …

Come, pick up your step,

March alongside o’ me – I dare you.

I’m heading across Troll Meadows,

Through the high, Lonely-Lady’s Pass

Planning to follow the Otter-Laugh Rivers

To swim with new-born whales

And hear their mothers sing

In the Waters Where Worlds Collide.

 

At Beginnings or Endings

Surprised …

To be –

Still –

So near the

High level bridge:

Cars thumping

On their

Temporary routes

Between one shock

And the next.

Honey Times

Hong Kong

Katherine

Riding the

World wheel.

Smiling as she sits

On the republic steps;

Fur Kurt

 

Balanced between Beethoven and Thunder,

We are all Destiny’s children,

Walking – whether we know it or not –

With our Fates and our phantoms.

This day our honest money is unacceptable,

We cannot climb the tower.

We cool our jets instead;

No wind, no forward speed:

The patient river of friendship

Smoothes our broken edges.

The new-old voices of rock

Loud again in

The still air.

Boto

I am (the only)

Sundaughter-child

Of Father Never-Still River

And Mother Daytime Sky.

She of changing mood

And appearance,

Capable equally of

Tempers terrible as storm

And sensitive extremes.

He of deep

Born-again memory

And the silver-shouldered strength

To move mountains

And souls.

Those Who Came

Well, let’s see now:

I didn’t sleep under the bed

Last night and it was

Another pleasant-passed day

On the paradise bus.

Daughter Mine.

Maybe –

She realised it so suddenly,

It actually caused physical pain –

She’d spent too damned-long

With her sleepless head

Inside a dark box of quiet,

Chocolate-bitter thunder

That echoed and repeated,

Stitching restless days together.

The Way It Goes

The way it goes

And away she goes

On a bright-eyed,

Finely shod horse

Past the station bridge,

Along the path to the past;

We sat at the Bar.

“Rivers are the ribs of the land,” the

Sounding-wise stranger said, eyes twinkling,

“When you buy a field

You’re buying the water:

That it has to offer –

For beasts, for crops –

Or such as it will need.”

Three whole hours

We sat at the bar

While the four-week storm cold

Threw itself at our windows, walls and lives.

Weaving home – the worst for cider –

I marvelled at the fact

That he hadn’t paid for a round.

26/4/2013

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