The wind is jamming,
with the grey sky’s band,
as dawn takes the stage
and I hear a tapping
There’s no-one at the door
just the occasional maraca
of the letterbox.
I still hear tapping
stealing me from the melancholy song.
I hear tapping.
The white rose outside the window
with thorny fingers
drums a high hat
from the garden.
A ghost
tapping at my soul.
for Patrick:
I’ll see you on the morrow
as sun bright-winking through the trees,
the smile in the glazing on the pew
where stain’glass-guided beams
alight for moments passing.
I’ll feel you in the whisper
of the breeze on summer’s days,
or the glance of something distant
through autumn’s misty haze
in the sunlight dancing.
For you are in the sun for me
your warmth and gentle glow
and ever with me on the path
wherever I may go.
And we will smile together
though for a while apart
for you are more than memory
you are in my heart.
And I’ll see you on the morrow
when we join hands again
in that land of constant singing
free of shackle, free of pain.
I’ll see you on the morrow
in the chorus by the throne;
loved and lovely, praising,
the King that we have known.
Lately I’ve been thinking
In the quiet dark of night
What will come tomorrow
When the years begin to bite
And silently and steadily
no matter how I try
I find the tears are running free
When I think of what might be
When the kisses all run dry
When without permission
We begin to forget
The years of fun and laughter
And the moments of regret.
When we forget to say ‘I love you’
As we turn out the light
And the days we’ve spent together
Meet the shadows of the night.
And then again in morning
We begin with an embrace
And find that our tomorrows
Still have dreams to chase.
But silently and steadily
no matter how I try
I find the tears are running free
When I think of what might be
And it’s tears of joy I cry
They did not gladly go to war
those who lie below
and followed those who went before
against a deadly foe.
They did not cheerful stand in line
or view their fate as beauty
but heroes all, whether lived or fall,
who saw their fears as duty.
And on a foreign field they fell
brother , father, friend
whose day began with whistle knell
and never saw an end.
Our silence at their graveyards sounds
as loudly as the mortars
and we wear our blood-red posies
for those who left no mourners.
Grace calls my name
my name scratched in nail
upon His hand
my life – a page in a holy book.
A path in a mist
to a light shrouded in mystery
which faith reveals
but sight cannot fathom.
Grace calls my name
in a voice I hear
but cannot see
yet its touch
is holy reality.
As long as God does not have the years,
as long as spirits play their games,
as long as we are tied by fears
then Satan stokes the fiery flames.
But come the morrow,
come the day,
come the new layed year
come discov’ry of the way
new change of path,
change of gear.
Come all old and faithful,
come thankful, grateful,
come failer, come successful
celebrate and cheer.
New day greets our feeble senses
new year begins its mile
and while we toy with our tenses
is, and was, and will be, smile.
Last night
for no reason
I was visited
by our
first
kiss.
It whispered
into my head –
uncomfortable
with hazard,
vulnerable
with shy warmth,
unremarkable.
In the porch
friendship,
tied on the track,
resonated
with a train
thundering
its peril
and unknown
destination.
Last night
for no reason
I remembered
our
first
kiss.
Thankful
that no rescue came.
Untidy time and tide return
as blood unfolds
and houses burn,
as children cry as they journey on
to other lands
for theirs has gone.
And limbs lie strewn across their way
unattached
from easy prey
who simply lived before migrant fear
destroyed the old
and they fell victim here.
And all who seek to move frontiers
with bomb or gun or knife or spears
should place them in a balance
weighed against
the ashes of the tears.
In the perjury of
last year’s
unfulfilled Lenten sacrifices
the priest’s freehand cross
becomes the smudge
of a pointed finger
this year
I
will
purge.
Rivers are weaving threads
across the sandbag wefted land
and patchwork fields
drown with new cloth.
Hedges poke up their heads –
markers for where roads
have dived below
inland seas.
Sheep, full bellied with twins,
huddle in island barns
as freshwater tides
graze their pasture.
Houses first-footed by water
as wavelets rap the doors
with unrelenting gusto.
Tears flow from kitchen,
parlour and refuge while
slicks of sewage sweep
the streets.
Unyielding winds
gather loose tiles
as ammunition
and bomb and blast
in a hubbub of ceaseless attack.
Daily the forecast fails
to bring the besieged relief.
This is the invasion.
wordsculpture 