Wednesday, February 14, 2024

This love will carry


This love will carry*

In the quiet darkness,
when all is still but my soul,
I will see you.

And on the shoulders of darkness
I would carry a candle
to your side.
I would not bring my darkness
nor candle my fears;
I would not shadow you
with my anxious soul.

And if my love could carry,
my love would carry you,
I'd be a transport in your care.
But, for now,
the wraith of missing enfolds me
even before you are gone.

I will see you still,
though you be far away
tired, troubled
and fighting battles.

My love carries me there,
wherever 'there' may be
my love will carry me,
would that my love
would carry
you.


14/2/2024
*title of a Dougie MacLean song

Friday, December 15, 2023

Some other blues


I can't bring sunshine,

can't stop the rain.

Can't turn back time -

and I can't ease the pain.

Can't fathom reasons

the world goes round,

why up is up

or down is down.


But, sure as a hand

is warmer in a glove;

if you'll let me,

you'll have my love.


Can't get to grips

with high-tech things,

with changing times -

the trouble it brings.

Why history changes

by the accent used,

details are changed

and facts abused.


But, rest assured,

if there's a God above;

if you'll let me

you'll have my love.


This isn't like

some other blues

where all is bleak

and life confused,

the light gone out

'cos the 'lectrics fused.

I'll plead guilty

if I'm accused -


if you'll let me

you'll have my love.

 

Sunday, November 12, 2023

Armistice 2023

 

Stiff stalked sentries in Autumn sunlight,

silently at attention before the stone,

stand dumb before the crowd.

Piped bugle notes

stir the mute moments

and the silence

ends.

 

But

not all

ends,

not all

are attentive

to solemn history;

and

violent scars surface

from bloodied soil

again.


We who sleep

on pillowed beds

contemplate, for a moment,

on those whose restless sleep

wrestles with the fear of waste.

Saturday, November 11, 2023

Ghosts, in memorial

 

 

The annual wraith of war

stalks sensitive earth,

leaving blood-stained trails

haunting tendered lives

with its heavy boots.


Ghosts, in memorial,

gather around

gatherings around

memorial stones

and half masted flags.


Poppies, in abundant echo,

badge lawyers and teachers,

housewives and doctors,

nurses and drivers

who have never ventured

before gunfire,

nor skirted craters

in a rush to oblivion.


The holy water of tears

elaborates grim remembrances

of histories shared

or

held at arms length by generations

that poorly understand

the painful chaos of conflict.