Swallows
Swallows did not come this year
and cuckoos are late,
nests stolen by others holding
no claim
as they themselves have no right,
without responsibility or rhyme
for building
planning for offspring
those new autumn
sunshine promises.
Cuckoos on the eastern route
never arrived in the south,
Spanish coast too parched and hot
to comfort their wayside
resting place,
only the western route
through the Balkans open
for the journey down,
though closed
for others crossing upwards by land
from countries blasted
from the earth.
Those fleeing from the south
and east of the middle seashores
reaching land, by sea
finally progress onwards,
waiting perhaps
to hear the cuckoos
returning
to the land of their nests,
waiting in vain
for the storks
long passed
overhead
too soon in the season,
losing their young
in the sudden cold which descends
out of time near Easter, Pasch or Eid.
News of more drones
Startled crones gaze up
drones fire down
shattering silence, life
then silence again
above bodies
scattered.
Old eyes gaze upwards,
aged well before their time
while far away
girls in leggings and lipstick
know nothing
of drones
Reducing
bodies to bone
bleached white in the sand
all to dust
left from their assaults
unknown great lands.
Chrome and plate glass
protect none
faceless, without care
swift, alone
in deserts far away
sands left blowing
silent.
Boots on the path
An old black boot with cobwebs where laces should be
Spun by spiders hidden in warm glistening woods
Like Alsace lace
Delicate, silvery, fragile to the touch
Hidden by the moss-covered bench
Built into the roots of an oak
Hanging overhead in silence
The only witness to this relic.
Boot tough, still black with rust
Where eyeholes once were
Frozen in nights of recent cold weeks
Like the church dome
Green, bronze gone to earth again
Transformed by the rain and ice
Waiting for walkers whispering
Sole voices in this ancient place.
Then back on a lone walk
After a year, the boot is gone
Searching through leaves, from scraping
And brushing aside forest droppings
It has gone, left the warmth of the hill
Leaving a good start for the story
Lurking beneath and behind secrets
Known only to the forest.
Chess
You asked today why I wrote poetry,
To drown out the other voices in my head
I replied.
They answered back
Do not forget us or ignore what we say
Compelling an answer though I knew not why.
There is a time for consciousness
And regularity and concern
But the peace we all dream of
Is allowed at centre as well
Permitted and desired in the cool of the morning
When birds alone sing as the village sleeps.
Peace over the hills where the traffic stands still
Not yet wound up like the springs
Of the minds running and deciding
Actions which will destroy peace
To bring peace
Or so they say.
Decisions and commitments not thought through
Short term efficiency on show for the media
Schoolboys moving knights and horses
On the table of life
Say the voices in my head
Urging these words.
