a yard of earth

a yard of earth. pic

 

the buried thoughts lie there

extensions of the temporal world

it’s graven images and dogs bones, forever

begging to rest

 

where amen lies down

for the solitary preacher

wasting eternal penance

and breathing through the soil

remembering, always in remembrance

 

until all the midnight journeys and

changing worlds beyond the next

become sameness,  returned

to a life that is spoken

in chants

M

Memory for Shelagh

 

after he had gone she lost

gradually

the letters from her name until

the M that launched her as a daughter

was left alone

stranded in the space that F

had shared, enjoined with her

 

Then she slipped away

clinging to that sense of loss

and enters now the land of shadows

and hints

that we can’t change

and so we reminisce

counting clocks and changing faces

 

the links of a family alerted

by her leaving

draw more tightly on the letters

in their own names

like pearls or beads that hold us fast

together in a daisy chain

of sadness and hope

Switch

Switch.pic.

 

Soft vows subside on the kerb

 in a gathering of yellows and browns surrendering

as a light wind makes the leaves skittish

 and those with memories,

those most recently released from the bough

and fallen through shafts of sun

 form a duvet that wraps itself

against the cold of a new,

coming season.

 This is yet another turning point

against a casual hand that insists

we go blind to history and forget

that time and tide are cycles

we dare not ignore

lest the light goes out.

Foot-steps

Mum. Helston. 1948.

Mum. Helston. 1948.

Foot-prints

 

Nothing but the quiet sympathy of mourners

Stretched around the ground

Simpering in half-choked grief

The suitable clothes, mostly dark or neutral

Lay down a grid

For professionals in tuxedo’s and studied gait

To do the solemn walk

The car, black, an echo now

Is set to heel

While stones form an arch

That tears flow through

And we are greeted by music

Bade to sit. Reflect

That life is a mirror in which we see

The survivor and his secret thoughts

So. Mother. I think of you.

Six months you have lain

Beneath those marks we made

Around your grave

Can you see the soles of my shoes from where you are?

God rest you Mum.

Those Random Fields

Those Random Fields

Those random fields

 

The poppies. Luscious red on stalks

In patches. Risen because memory

And a reservoir of love

Deeply held, compels us to plant

The seeds of future hope

And to mark with a beautiful stain

Acknowledgement of desperate human wrongs

That random beauty

From guerrilla planting

We savages come across

And see a whisper

A visual clue

That one hundred years ago

The moans of men

Are not forgotten in soil

Where red remembers

Passion spent

Where sentries speak

That whispered lament

So. Softly go.