"...AS TREES WALKING . . ."

the goldfish ponders
the world the other side of the glass
retires to its castle

it watches the coming
& goings of us
unable to explain our existence

"...I see men as trees walking. . ."
the vicar reads
his thought visible to the fishes

"...but what does it mean?"
one fish asks the other
"...and what are - trees?"

the vicar dies
in his sleep
words still floating about in his head

the fish unable to explain
his stillness....loudly
the clock talks in tick tocks

the God hand
that feeds them...does not
come

hungry for answers
they cease
to believe

Time
darkens
whitens

& again
darkens
whitens

it all goes belly up
the dead vicar & his dead fish
frightening the home help

only the plastic Christ
nailed to the wall
hears her scream

THE DESTRUCTION OF SUMMER

her father
takes her
up the hill

and even though
he walks slow
she has to run to

catch up
and soon
they arrive

gaze over
where they have
come from

the red barn
tiny as a toy
but still itself

the stream
flowing nearby
a clump of trees

a road meanders
running to somewhere
or other

and there barely
the lady scarecrow
dressed in pink

almost only
imagined
but there nonetheless

now as winter
draws in
the summer hidden under snow

he leaves
by her sleeping
the summer she saw

a perfect replica
of the time
gone

even down
to the lady scarecrow
dressed in pink

and so it remains
for years
after he is gone

until her dog
excited by her return
jumps up and

summer tumbles
to destruction
scatters over the floor

she tries not to
scold the dog
cries silently

still feels
her father's hand
in hers

"...IN FORGETFUL SNOW..."

flake by flake
Heaven falls
until its whiteness covers all

angels guard
their dead
all is quiet all is light

even marble flesh
feels
the cold

the dead
have forgotten
Christmas

a Christmas
the angels
have never known

a forgotten bicycle
half there-half not
looking like an art installation

until it too
succumbs
to the snow's will

the silence slowly
erasing
the world

a raven
perches
upon an angel's wing

she pays it no mind
gazing with sightless eyes
as land and sky become one

even
the horizon
is being filled in

the raven's
harsh voice
upsetting the silence

*

“Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow”

― T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

THE DUSK FOX

the fox acknowledges
with an imperceptible  nod
the arrival of dusk

dusk and the fox
becoming one
entering the world of humans

the fox is busy
being a fox
stops: paw raised

the fox goes
in and out of
time

appearing now
disappearing as if
it had stepped out of the world

the dusk no longer
exists
night falls with my footfall

as if on cue
synchronised to time
and light

the fox stares  at me
beyond me...I am
a walking shadow

the yellow street light
stains us for a moment
we vanish from each other

tomorrow sees
dusk and fox
keep the same appointment

only I
am absent
. . .

*

Riffing on Hughes' THE THOUGHT FOX.... when my brother introduced me to his very own private fox who would without fail come to the window and gaze in at him. We would sit with the lights out and await his presence. When my brother died I'm sure the fox continued to come and gaze at the now silent window. Fox as psychopomp. When the fox came it would gaze at us for about five minutes and we would sit still in the darkened room and gaze back and try to commune.

My brother always loved Raymond Carver's Late Fragment...

"And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth."

He said this was what the fox was saying....the ultimate question you have to answer when death comes calling.

WORSE THINGS THAN DYING

I wander
among the living
unable

to believe
I am
dead

the living
haunt
my dreams

their tears
torment
me

trapped
in their memories
I scream

unable
to break free
from their grief

that holds me
prisoner
in their minds

I am at war
with time
forever dying

'TA DA!"

uncle
always
making things

appear
and disappear
and then

plucking them
from behind my ear
with a chuckle

doves and rabbits
materialising out of
a top hat he never wore

I never believed
in the magic
only in him

didn't like to tell him
that "ABRA...CADAVER!"
wasn't the word

or that "HEY PESTO!"
only made
my mouth water

enjoyed his enjoyment
in my pretend
amazement and surprise

and yes he was
a third-rate magician
not realising that

the magic
was always
always him

WHAT THE CAT DON'T WANT TO HEAR
              THE CAT DON'T HEAR

(TO.THE. ONLIE. BEGETTER. OF.THESE. INSVING. LINES.  Mr. A.S.J. ALL. HAPPINESS. AND. THAT. ETERNITIE. PROMISED.)

the chair
liked the room
it was living in

the day before
it was living
in a shop

only one
of many
such chairs

now
it had
its own room

indeed it was
the only chair there
it even had its own desk

yet the desk was full
of its own
self importance

and had only indulged
in the usual
polite conversation

about how far
or near
one should be to it

the chair was rather proud of
THE CLOUD OF UNKNOWING
that lay open upon it at page 144

the desk was profoundly
jealous of it
whereas the chair

actually took pleasure
in the mere fact of
its mistress's posterior

a mirror slightly
to the side
allowed the chair to look out

upon a garden
who talked continuously
about the weather

a lawn ran down
to a flint-faced wall and
beyond the wall's flint facedness

lived
( so the chair believed )
- the World

the chair
( even if it had to
say so itself )

and human voices
agreed with its opinion that
looked extremely elegant

the chair
enjoyed
being a chair

the only thing that irked
was the cat
whose habit it was

to doze upon it
when the humans
left the room

"Shoo...shoo!"
the chair cried out
in deep despair

but the cat
either did not
speak

or
pretended
not to

understand
what was said
to it