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.
verse
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
On this day
against their hopes
a giant resting
among giants
found by friends
for in truth
he was never lost
Failing light
After the squall
another step up the stony staircase
another step closer.
A striding beacon
towering in the middle distance
signalling that to come.
Each step fragile
memories pass father to son
a failing light burning bright.
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.
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.
Ebb
too soon, too soon
too soon to say
whether I miss them
whether I’m just tired
whether the weather is getting me down
whether the tide waits for no man
whether that’s just for those without a plan
whether I’ll hide, survive or drown
too soon to say
too soon, too soon
Bursting
Finding my line is all well and good
but it does not help to flood
my lungs with the oxygen I so desperately need
to feed my blood
so I can soar away from the pain and succeed
rather than bleed and sink gasping
grasping for some hope and some sign
of a glorious descent
and the line drawn by another
The culinary nest of delight
I was going to write a poem
but where do you start to depart
from fact to Facebook fiction
from the fact that your kitchen
deviates from the public depiction
of a culinary nest of delight
rather it resembles scrambled
celebrity scroungers of the night
with the delicate aroma
of napalm in the morning
Seeking answers
They ask. Of course they do.
I would join them
– if only I could join them –
but I have met Why?
and spent time in its presence.
I’m no clearer of course, are you?
the jericho roads 