|
Time
Beyond Now
Will
you weep tears for me
from
those burning eyes
when
I am gone?
Even
remembering that I
am
not the first and only one
to
melt in their fire.
Will
you weep tears for me then,
or
will it pass
like
shades of night
when
dawn steals in?
Yet
ever rest your thoughts
on
warmer memories;
the
smell of pinewood in the air
the
feel of fallen leaves
upon
a time
beyond
all taking now.
Northumbrian
Impressions
The
warmth of a sister’s smile
in
the look of Odin’s folk;
and
the sound of the piper playing
through
the misty green moon and the wind
of
the Northland.
Weary
body, soul sucked through
the
grey fog and the slate-cold sky.
Wake
each day to labour anew
for
the new bairn in the making.
Oh
my bairn, my bonnie bairn,
will
a fine dawn break upon you?
Will
the pipes that sound your father’s knell
open
heaven and earth to build for you
from
the weary skin of a coal-mine man?
No
more than a beast in a hole see.
But
play sweet pipes bring in the morn,
the
day will break and call us free!
Only
the Flowers
(
funeral of artist Mohan Khadka)
Only
flowers from the fields of September
left
on your bier when, a straw in the wind,
you
went without due warning as it were.
A
child still, or, at least, for some of us
a
child. I do this evening remember
a
tiny caterpillar hid in a mum
and
wondered would it go to the river
with
you and, before ending a cycle,
self-destruct,
follow you to the fire
of
your tomorrow. Beyond in the deep sky
we
know somewhere you will paint eternities
with
new brushstrokes, mediocrity descry,
while
we stand wondering at your last days.
You’re
gone and we hold only the flowers.
Memories
of an Old Friend
Imagine
old Bunny crashing out of life
in
his own Mercedes Benz, imagine!
Why,
my most vivid memories of him
are
the candles of snot, upper lip clinging,
and
the way he talked, right down his nose.
He
seemed a bit slow, if you know what I mean?
Always
ready to exchange with anyone
from
his ration book, a week’s sweet coupon
for
a packet of juicy fruit chewing gum.
And
how we bullied him then!
It
was cruel to think of it.
We
wouldn’t let him eat
the
oranges from South Africa
sent
free to British schools
for
the war, to help us tide it over;
he
loved anything sweet
and
was dying for one when
we
stopped him because of apartheid.
Poor
Bunny couldn’t even spell it!
Let
alone ever come to understand
what
exploitation really meant!
A
simple chap, it makes you wonder
how
he made all that money.
Even
his sister, not too bright
did
well, shows that life’s funny.
We’d
force him down the slate quarry
and
he’d cry and bawl in fear.
"I
won’t go down, I can’t go down
just
looking down makes me feel queer."
But
he designed all those big buildings,
those
skyscrapers, didn’t you
know?
It’s
hard to see him as he was,
afraid
of ghosts and games of pretend.
When
we pushed him through darkened doors,
he’d
say we were so vicious and mean
we’d
all come to a very bad end.
Poor
Bunny in his Mercedes Benz!
It’s
an end we all come to, didn’t he
know? |
