The trenches are callin’ again, trenches
That run alongside the country roads
Like disgruntled pups trackin’
The stench of desertin’ fowls,

These roads are now scuppered,
Littered with wailin’ canyons
Where rodents linger
To escape the gammy claws
That stir our last supper,

A supper that rudely stiffens
Like the mud upon a boot: brittle
And forgotten, uneven
And absolute,

And what of the smell?
The smell that comes
With the mud upon our boots:
It wafts into the trenches
Lickin’ our cracked irises, and
Stainin’ our grubby suits,

A stingin’ smell that paints
Our stomachs black, and
Sends boys to the dummy Saints
Who are teased at the plaque,

And yet, this abhorrent stench
Is only a pungent memory,
Much more dire stains
Await us over the rim, a rim
Emblazoned with thicket chains
And a bramble corpse, warnin’
The juveniles not to rush
The country walk.

When I breached the gates of Eden,
The gardens did not sing; and
The crows were naught
But labouring -

A thousand charcoal teeth
Chewing at the rot, until
All appeared cold
As the Kings of Camelot,

When I breached the gates of Eden,
The fountain had run dry
And the men were on fire
Laid down by its side, and

A great wave of white lilies
Had devoured the landscape
Leaving naught but the words
Of unguarded graves,

When I breached the gates of Eden,
The mothers pleaded for a song;
“Will you sing, will you sing”,
They begged for me, all night long,

But I do not know how to silence
The howling of the bereaved
For the gates of Eden
Had been deplorably besieged.

Even the pigeons can see the puddles
That surround the crowds
Of the Old Steine
But i’m not sure they can see the rain
And I do not think they will look at me,

They hop across the swamp-filled curbs,
Dipping talons, and washing
Their wings as they go, ignorant
To the faces that
Ache for their homes,

But I do not think
They will look upon me;
Not in the mirrors
That mask the street floors
And not during this purgatory
Of the bus stop storms.

And yet, I look upon them
In hopes they gaze at me
But they never will and
Nor will they mourn
When I am summoned to leave.

FOR YOU ALONE.

For you alone
The crows will prepare a hymn,
An all so blessed coo -
A gentle chime beckoned only to you,
Hear it well
Or hear it not at all,  just know
  It was for you, my
                                        darling  
                                                     you.
Feed the timid birds  
       Upon the garden wall
And remember to smile
As you do, that exalted  
                                       smile
       You give to all,

And when
     The morning chorus
Sees the stars
            And the moon
It is  only because
   I am bereaved
         And  
                Missing you.

The noise of the cavalry was muffled by the rhythm of the crows
Cawing, they bellowed their demands, until silence
Betray the gathered armies, and the men began towing
The foreign rocks, heavy they were, scrapping the last of the lavender
From the earth. Those in protest formed a crust
That lined the crown of the castle walls, there will be no violence

Today, nor tomorrow or the next for the wives have had enough of violence
And the birdsongs have never sounded so bitter, these crows
That perch in the woven branches of the castle woods eat nothing but the crust
From shattered honeypots. Often they screech out in pain, but it is all silence
Lately for they have been soothed by the refugees of lavender
That squat in their nests. But it won’t last, for the men have started towing

Again; great metal ladders in hopes to infect their havens, men towing
Their aggression like a mere pebble in their pockets. They are cemented in violence
Like the calf to the ******, and the wife who lathers the scent of lavender
Into her hair. But not all things are so natural and sweet. The crows
Have had their heritage destroyed, they no longer follow the universe, silence
Has become permanence, just like how their rookeries have formed the crust

Upon their enemy’s world. So damp and hollow their homes have become like a crust
Of saliva upon the bathroom sink, alas there is no time to repair, for the men are towing
Again; rocks, ladders and now fallen oaks - dragging earth up as they trudge. There is silence
Before the breach, a moment of purgatory before the deafening violence
Ensues. There are no caws from the guarded rookeries, the crows
Have decided to sleep through revolution, huddled among their lavender

That will soon be found in the knotted hair of widows, the stench of lavender
Shall waft through the winds of grief, as the priest gives counsel to the fresh crust
Of tears found under the eyes of thousands. It is over now and the crows
Have come to pay their respects, they caw at the men who are towing
The tombstones of lives that never blossomed, each one reads: “there will be no more violence
Today, nor tomorrow or the next.”. And life shall proceed only with silence.

For awhile it may all persist, silence
Is king and the woods that hug the castle walls are growing lavender
Again. The treaty is kept and the cloak of violence
Is hung up neatly next to the crown, waiting for the crust
Of peace to be vanquished. It is the wives now who spend their days towing
The labour of the land; weaving seeds and chatting to the crows.

Alas, it does not take long for violence to mature, and for the silence
To pitter off. The crows have buried themselves, taking all the lavender
With them. The men are towing again and all that is left is a broken crust.

Gone are the merciful gallows, and gone
Are the deep cuts of wayward shadows
That accompanied the aftermath
Of a day’s work,
Now all the crass fellows
Are in the dirt, perhaps hollow
And departed from their history, but before
There were those who waited, mourning
Their blind innocence in the stalls
Where men of misery would whisper
Through the scabs on their lips
Calling out to one another, “you ****** fools!”.

Here, they spoke of the ‘thirteen steps’
And the ‘one life’ that regressed, told so
To humble each and everyone
Of their grossly enamoured necks,

Such precision could never be ******.
No, “it is justice” says the man
Who smugly wields the golden hammer
And those rodents
Who demonstrate the title; ‘lucky-lurker’,

And when the rope is snipped
The mortality of men shall drip, like
An untethered shower head
Perpetually tugging with the clean hand
And the only farewells that shall be said;
“Mother Justice, he is dead”.

Look upon the Royal Gardens
And see how the trees are aged
And starving, I have seen
Their bark shiver
And crack, I have seen
Their roots go rotten
And black, and in the frozen air
Flakes of wooden shrapnel
Drunkenly dance to the rhythm
Of the thrush’s melody, but
Even the birdsong has wilted
In the dull revelry
Of the tree’s passing, for

The holly bushes are few
And their berries no longer
Blossom from the flower, the
Thrush’s dinner is due but
The elm’s nectar has gone thick
And sour, and  

Where should the royal swans rest
If not upon
The shrunken coasts of ponds
That seem more like puddles
And by rivers that have gone still
And narrow
Making the water appear dead
And shallow, where then

Should they go
If only Hell is available ?