Owls

When wolves move out to hunt the hare
and stars burn coldly through the spheres,
dark forests fill with whispered prayer
where snow falls thick and drifts are sheer
and those that can stay in their lair
for night is full of hungered fear;
old owls heed all who hunker there:
the stag horn beetle, stealthy deer,
scraggy vixen and hulking bear,
yet always hold their knowledge near:
Who? Who?
                    The only words they'll share;
Who? Who?
                    Their questions ringing clear -
through bronze hung beeches, freezing air
- are winter bells no man will hear.

Armstrong's Lost Letter

Armstrong's lost letter

Walking  on  the  Moon is  similar  to
swimming offshore,  the  blue Earth
like the distant coastline.  You  can

hear the shouting, happy children
running on sand. Fathers rowing

dinghies fifty yards out, weird
inflatable  satellites, their

daughters  shouting
messages back
to  Mom

                                                        if you

                                                  listen hard
                                          you might also hear
                                    lovers kissing in the dunes.
                                 The ocean is so deep out here,

                                    cold too. And me? I'm just

                                      treading water. Leaving

                                             prints upon the

                                                      moon.

First published at Ink, Sweat & Tears April 2016

The Christmas Gift

They walked beside the river,
swollen from heavy sleet.
He felt the matted grass
crunch beneath his feet.
In his pocket he knew
a secret, terrible and raw.
She said that she was freezin'
and what'd they come 'ere for?

Her white throat, silly heels
puffer jacket, trinkets gold,
she said that she was goin' back;
his fingers tightened on the cold
blade, eager in his coat.
They'd come a little way now
he could maybe do it here:
he'd already worked out how.

There were no angels singing
a church bell didn't ring,
he felt no warm compassion,
(he never felt a thing).
But he eased up on the handle,
said Yeah, you're right, let's go
and as they walked towards the road
the sky began to snow.




Published on Ink Sweat and Tears 31/12/2013
(12 Days of Christmas)
http://www.inksweatandtears.co.uk/pages/?paged=2