Sunday, 22 September 2013

Equinox 21/9/13


Axle end moon,
sitting justly
on a flat horizon.
Inverted fulcrum:
the balance point
of dark and light.

The seesaw tips,
we cross the meridian
into the long shake
of hibernation nights,
the drop of logs in hearths,
the fug of damp coats hanging
in mouldering hallways
of winter hearts.





Friday, 13 September 2013

Daedalus's lament



I was known for my skill,
indeed I built the great labyrinth
- for which they imprisoned me.

So when I made our wings
I made them well, worked the wax,
chose all the feathers carefully.

I didn't know if it could work.
I knew the theory and some facts,
used all my art and trigonometry.

People forget now that I flew too.
I didn't just stand and cheer below
to watch Icarus ascend the blue.

I warned him not to get excited.
Not to soar too high,
climb too close to the sun.

I made no promises either.
But now people look at me
as if to say "he killed his son".

I only dreamed of escape
- he shared that dream with me.
Was I so wrong?





First published 23/5/15 Three Drops From A Cauldron
www.threedropspoetry.wordpress.com



Friday, 6 September 2013

Late at the house of Mezcal and Pistachio


Midnight.
Tequila gone
and the
pistachios done.
Their little brown
mussel shells
split and emptied,
bar the
stubborn ones.

Too early for sleep
I looked at the worm,
the worm looked at me.
Not tempting.
But I couldn't let it be,
so ate the mother anyway.

"...and so it was that later
as the ceiling flew away..."

I dreamed of the bottle
floating out on a
burgundy ocean
under a setting sun
bumping to the shore
of a baked land
where a cute black kid
took off the lid,
held the maggot
in the palm of his
small, sandy hand,
and wondered at the message,
what it said - or what it hid.





*First published in 'The Broadsheet'  9/2013









Whites



Two Cabbage Whites
                      twist and dance in flight
         inches from each other,
                                     each little manoeuvre
                      a mirror to another.

                                                          How do their tiny
                                               brains comprehend:
                                                                   this white one here
                                     will be my friend?

                 Must they get up
                                     so close
                                               to recognize
                                                   their cavorting ally
                                           by the winking
                          whites of its
                                        fluttering eyes?




First published in The Garden Poetry Anthology from OWF Press 11/14