The Route

Through early morning
dawn light,
a hundred heavy hooves,
the combined might of our peasant past,
thunders past,
vocalising with heavy voices
singing loudly, chanting now,
a single loud sad roar,
filtering through the gates and pours,
flows with purpose, and more,
noise, louder in unison, in harmony,
reaching a resounding resonance,
together a deafening reverberating
engine of gentleness
as eyes, wide, dark, lashes flutter
pretty faces, confused in fear
following each in front,
steer and then stutter,
hoping home is not that far,
but knowing deep inside
this, the route to the abattoir.


Parched as I am I do not think
I’ll take a drink from you.
I’m not a fan of your saintly ways,
how the gays cause hurricanes,
in your eye,
that piercing optical orb,
able to see a written God
who happens to suit your convenient lie.

I’ll not shake your dirty hand
to rule a land I do not own.
I’ll take the huge and evil risk
to frisk and frolic in the grass
as I might,
with genders equal of each kind,
simple partnerships with a loving sign,
and work instead for what is right.

Parched as I am I do not think
I’ll take a drink with you in sight.

Slow Motion

I move in slow motion
while gusts of people blow,
twist around me and show
panic in tornado eyes,
feet spinning from the ground,
updrafts of angry air
to reach imagined skies.

I shelter from that confusing wind,
the devastation of its vortex path
ensuring I keep out of harm
and seek out a coffee cup
to keep things slow, relaxed and calm.


Gnarled, sitting lonely at the edge of the beach,
perhaps the old man has nothing left to teach
as we sit and re-hear old stories of how he arrived.
We’ve heard often how he survived
the struggling of the sea
and how, hands knotted, knuckles kneading the sand
he claimed this spot,
living free.
But now he’s unsettled, loose and
with sudden farewell
as the sea with a final unprecedented swell
reclaims our familiar host,
and takes him distant to another coast.



Behold, the scene that fed my past,
though my childhood laughs did not echo there
and the silhouette of what is left
is flattened now, with those bare
and winter-ready trees
having autumn-lost their drinking cups
stand blindly, looking up,
dry towards a dimming sun
which paints moist a faint landscape glow
though I see no field or garden now
and there is no gardener to wipe his brow
in summer heat,
in this cardboard cut-out version
of my childhood seat.
I see but a scene set forever in fading light
where no detailed features may return,
no matter how hard I wish or fight.