Devon. Arch. View.

Devon. Arch. View. pic

lichen on old stone

it’s yellows and greens

in a texture of remembrance

add casual beauty to the aperture

of an arched window through which

one solitary sheep moves by inches

like a maggot across the sward

behind, though filling all the space

a clock ticks encircling me in the view

Bound by knowledge I struggle with

and anchored by all sorts of gravities

I accept an affinity

with that accumulating texture on the wall

and look up to see four more sheep

Where I sit, this place that faces

an old stone wall, ragged and thick

which was the slaughter-house of New Barn Farm

Outside, rough flagstones were the perimeter

of a killing zone. A way out of life

But now, swaying between the tick and tock

I count sheep. Innocent in the view

Ridiculous

Ridiculous

 

I call my dog ‘Ridiculous’

which is of course a tad unfair

but as the boss

I uphold my right to interfere

in everything we come across

especially when I shout ‘come here’

and the blasted dog doesn’t give a toss

then someone remarks she has lovely hair

expecting me to agree and doff,

my cap

which I rarely do when the weather is fair

though I do if it’s raining cats and dogs

or to fend off an angry Terrier

but just to underline the point. She is ridiculous.

I am the Boss no matter what gets into her.

Bloody dog looks incredulous.

Come here!!!

These Rooms

These room. photograph

breathe honesty through pain

assemble despite craving

and are drawn to communicate

with a fierce resolve

that bares it’s face

to sinews and contours laid bare

in past shame. self pity. arrogance.

shyness hides deception

in that mask which enables carnage

and yet each day

new recruits file in

and face cracked mirrors

in humble places

that ask only for truth

and bear witness, sometimes

to a craving

for redemption

for love and peace

that lies bleeding and torn

in memories that stink.

These rooms offer

an unassuming refuge

for bodies and minds

that are willing.