Dead heads stare from the wall

one can't tell if their glassy eyes
hold the relics of past life
or the sadness of having lost it
to the fires of royal pastime

tiger eyes look pathetically pleading
for re-stitching the stripes on the bones
leopard head growls only in anguish
of his spots being soft spot for target
the open jaws of the croc
can't still swallow the stuck bullet
awed eyes of deer is yet to sense
the muzzle that ruptured its innocence
the jackals, birds, langurs, civets
all frozen in the suddenness of the ***** out.

The hunter's head peeps from a dusty frame
having got his place of pride
among his game.

The power is cut and the house is dark,
it is not yet night, the world bathed in saturated blue,
washed in layers of filter.
We're lost in our own worlds,
my brother and I,
and our silence is understanding
and companionship
and muted friendship.
My mother is in the kitchen,
silhouetted against the candle's orange light,
and she is soft edges
and stitches
and a woman who bore two.
The three of us,
strangers, family,
unknown, discovered,
hidden in the darkness, revealed in the shadows.
I want to say, *this matters.
This moment matters.
You will forget
but I will always remember.

Is it true what the scientists say
That life on earth will end one day?

I guess that they are probably right
There'll be no day, there'll be no night

The ozone layer is full of holes
Rising temperatures melting ice floes

Will we perish in enormous Floods?
The thought of it just chills the blood

Or will earthquakes bury us out of sight
Will fire devour us without a fight?

Storm and tempest, some folk say
Will make us kneel in final prayer

The forecast? Now  I'll give you mine:
It will end in two thousand and seventy nine


Keith Wilson            June 25 2016