47. the Light returns

The light has returned,

suddenly, day is special

and the breath of wind

is excited.

Shadows steal away

in defeat

and hide behind

all things,

their carrion addiction

unsatisfied.

The smell of dawn,

no longer tainted by death,

carries the incense of presence.

It is Easter,

as the rooster crows,

waking the world

and all things are new.

46. not a green hill faraway

original artwork - Keith Wallis

We sang of a green hill

in our churches

and chapels,

our four walled

comfort castles.

We sang of a faraway green hill

which was not green

but scrubby,

dusty, rocky

exposed and bleak.

If it were a colour

it would be red:

red with anger,

red with blood-lust.

Red with fear,

red with tears

red with the mist

that covers eyes.

It was not a green hill faraway

but the desolate place

in our hearts

that longs

for

Easter morn.

45. like Friday

Now it’s wide open

but revealing nothing.

The path leads in

like Good Friday’s cross

but there is no destination

revealed,

no tree-lined avenue

to the future,

no welcome mat.

In the shade

there is the suggestion

of more,

but no more than that.

To eyes that have seen

more of everything,

more of nothing

doesn’t seem right.

The possibility

of a change in direction

requires a step

over the threshold

of today

leaving footprints

of yesterday

for others to follow.

44. barnacles and rust

Growing older:

sidelined, agedefined,

barnacle and rust lined.

Tide mark long-since dried

with only lapping memories

of the embrace of the sea

or the occasional storm surge

reminder of the freedom

of flying.

Someone put you here,

dragged you into a new reality

for which you were not designed.

You should have gone down

with the captain

battling a squall

or riding a tsunami

a planked surfer

wide eyed with passion.

But here you are,

windows cataracted

with cobwebs,

timbers dried

(and only shivered by the wind),

making shadow on the bank

instead of bright reflections.

Now you eat the salty wind,

and taste the ridicule of gulls.

Now your new coat is of droppings

and detritus

as you wait

the funeral pyre

of other vandals.

But I liked you,

I enjoyed you enough

to point a camera on a grey day.

I gave some thought

to where you might have been

and felt sad for where you are now.

43. Noah saw

Houghton Regis 31/03/2015

It came

from darkened firmament

and rainy torrent.

The sun low in the heaven

scribes

the note that Noah saw,

the covenantal communication

a signature of God. 

Spanning the sky,

a technicolour bridge

from here to there

in vivid grandeur

 illuminating the grey.

The bright prism projection -

an inverted smile,

benevolent

in the raging wind
and scattered light.

42. I remember Easters

I remember Easters

when the sparkling paper

on the Easter egg

was the only complication.

When which ear of the bunny

do I eat first,

or what to do with

the too-curious cat

were the only questions.

There was no blood involved,

no pain-filled imaginations

of the cruelty of sacrifice,

no wonderings of lost days

or mid-day darkness.

Then wine and bread

became the wrappings

of Easter

and it wasn’t ‘fun’

anymore;

it

was

JOY.

41. tyred

Bleached by salted tides,

abandoned even by the sea ,

forlorn flotsam -

shore-side detritus

hides in the forgiving weed.

There is loneliness

in this silent solitude

worthlessness

in its decaying

like an neglected pensioner

ignored in Autumn.

Both waiting to drown

in the returning flow of time.

40. The rising tide of dawn

The rising tide of dawn,

red and raw as bloody Friday,

floods the beginning of day.

Night shrugged off like an overcoat

as time stands still to watch

the unfolding,

listening to the overture

of waking birds.

The revelation begins

with tearful steps

into the assumed,

but unknown;

a journey

beyond

the night-dark,

cold-soul, mausoleum.

39. One for Connor

A boy in a bubble,

but the bubbles are free

and you are trapped

though your soul,

unbound,

travels the wind

like a song.

You sing in our hearts

with play and laughter

and a perfection

that only imperfection

can convey.

We are in your world

but we do not know your world;

you are in our world

and it makes it

a better place.

38. Bitten by the wind

Bitten by the wind,

chewed by the years,

the wall changes expression

as time erodes.

Yet still you stand

as salt and sand

assail your pock-marked face.

And still you stand

though the builders

and the builders sons

lie in trampled graves.

And stand you will,

and stand you still,

when I have passed

and gone my way;

for you are stronger

and have still longer

to hold your vigil,

day by churning day.

37. We write in sand

We write in sand

our lives that pass away,

times tide

stealing memory

with its hungry tongue

in our absence.

Our names go first

through the front door

as it gapes unguarded -

‘do you remember what’s-his-name’

recalled by a blemish,

a misdeed, mostly,

an accomplishment,

occasionally.

Then deeds find the fire escape

and leave

or gain new identities

passed on like a baton

to unwary pseudonyms.

We write in sand,

our names written

in an ink that fades

in the sunlight of years.

The life that we write

yellowing with age

at the turning of each page.

We write in the sand

but, when we return to the cleansing sea,

the real book is opened -

the revelation

of our name

written on the palm

of the hand

that knew our scars.

36. the taste

sugared nebula

a pink cloud

a rosè rose

sweetness on a stick

in the brash burlesque

the sparkled glitter

and ranting cacophony

of the fairground

and memories

of the waltzer

of youth

35. an accordion on the common (3 haiku)

the breath of music

earlier days are summoned

festal memories

frolicsome children

joyous cavorting lovers

Spring lambs in embrace

sun breaking the cloud

on its anvil of bright rays

the year journeys on

34. Sunny and the Rays

The band,

ancients of days

with their wind and rattling,

sing lightsongs through the church

as the sun plays upon their fingers.

Not just blues

but many hued

in the jazzing of luminosity.

A fanfare proposed

by the daily orb

as it gambols the heavens

Sunny and the Rays

on tour.

33. needlework

Random folded, flowing

with the looseness of falling

it’s a wave searching the beach,

clouds tumbling the sky,

or bleached Autumn leaves

settling on the ground.

Hand made, stitch by stitch,

with the finest of threads

and the paced patience

of a artist at work.

The blueprint might be common,

a pattern to work to,

but the dictates of tension

and attention

create individuality.

Formed in slow disclosure

like the secret of a womb,

growing unhurriedly

in the nurture of needle.

In the fullness of time

the revelation matures

a stitch at a time

a stitch in time.

The hand, holding the needle,

itself a stitch

in the tapestry of life

formed in the womb

of the Creator.

32. do I still bleed

Rampant ogres stalk the weak

their argument of armament

too wild for dialogue

and decaying peace

lies forlorn like broken bodies

littered on a battlefield.

Do I still bleed ?

A cyclone blows its ugly breath

and unbridled sea purges the land

leaving its salty tongue in wells and waterways.

Villages are levelled, homes destroyed.

Do I still bleed ?

Adolescence is stolen

by manipulative groomers

ploughing forbidden furrows

and planting guilt and fear.

Justice and youth raped

in equal measure.

Do I still bleed ?

Disease in uneasy warfare

targets the dark continent,

families huddle spawning in ignorance.

Children suckle empty breasts,

bloody tears are not confined to eyes.

Do I ?

.Still.