Karma suits you

an invite

a tentative knock at the door

tea and toast and tears

and all those things shared through the years

if I could I would love you more

less flexible now and yet

still we remain

intertwined

 

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Day of the wren

No time for eloquence

to fall upon frustrated ears.

No Sanhedrin and no Saul,

the onlooker was but a call

away, shielded behind the safety

of the bloodied panic button.

A glutton for punishment

and conscription, was voluntary.

 

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Preamble

How do you convey violence, its impact and aftermath: explain everything and nothing, stand up and remain anonymous? How do you explore and challenge conceptions of – and blurred distinctions between – victim and perpetrator, participant and witness, guilt and innocence, blame and responsibility, fear and courage, fact and truth and fiction? How do you convey stark, brutal and often incompetent reality without visceral detail? How do you challenge your assumptions and maintain self, vision and experience? And can it really be done in less than 50 words? To what end?

I can’t answer.

15 years to figure out how I wanted to approach a subject. Another year for that idea to rest, develop and take shape. And in the end a matter of minutes to write.

A blur.

A lifetime.

It seems appropriate to post the finished piece on the feast day after Christmas, where it will pass unnoticed – which is as it is should be. A merry Christmas to you all.

 

 

Beyond Merlin Crag

beyond Merlin Crag

a glistening Aradaidh awaits

the broken sky as breathless as I

plodding rather than prancing

up the rough track more

usually travelled by machine

bumping and jostling

its cossetted occupants

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Communication cord

The bridge had lost its lustre; that feat of engineering which spanned

the easy ebb and flow and troubled spates and spats.

The cantilevered communication cord between parallel banks of opinion

scarred with scribbles, oversaw the writing on the wall for lesser structures.

The odd creak but a reassuring solidity remained nonetheless.

There was an occasional facelift of course, a fresh burst of enthusiasm now and then

but even neglected it still outlived many life spans, generations of storms.

A monument to its simplicity and truth.

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Symphony

A wild moon threatens the still

spruce silhouetted on the skyline.

The shadow hound stalks at pace,

scent marking his territory at will.

The owl screeches, wise to the time

whilst the seeker whistles prematurely

and a mother barks warning her kind.

The haunting echo of the distant roar

taunting the neighbouring balladeers,

a prelude: the percussive climax to come.

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