He always stops to look at
school art displays, searching for
the old hiking boot paintings.
Examines them very closely,
not artfully, but comparing
wrinkles with his mirror image.
Their skin colour darker than his,
except for the newer, resented
interlopers. He doesn't trust them,
painfully rigid in their ways.
He favours those that have seen better days.
He stands above the bridged weir,
watching the sunlight striking
the waterfall, where stream joins river,
bright silver spray, subtle spectrum.
Ripples exhaust their energy
on the black glassy surface,
obscuring the waiting menace
pervading his dark imaginings.
He's beyond its reach, sheltered
by artifacts, though exposed
in stillness to ghostly thoughts,
cloaked in ancient folklores' clothes,
savage rites, evil onslaughts.
Documentary on fast forward,
lacking commentary, towns flash by
Coronation Street domestic dramas,
ordered rank and file urban pedantries.
Perhaps like one of those old westerns,
where they wound the scenery past
a mock-up stagecoach interrior,
so that's where all the porters went.
Rolling landscapes, seascapes, mile on mile,
stiles and paths and telegraph poles,
rain fraying skies and foaming sea,
criss-cross links and creaking carriages.
Slowing down, a shuddering stop,
stiffened limbs begin to flop,
stiffened brains still travel dizzy,
busy station, platform tizzy.
The Earth is bleeding red and slow,
shuddering in a hot sweat,
cracking it's stretched skin, projectile
vomiting its rumbling guts.
My people run. Too late! Too late!
The Earth God's anger seals their fate.
Stone encased we shall remain, until
the curious unveil our pain.
Words that flame, words that shame.
Words! Words! Words!
Words we shouldn't use.
Words politicians choose.
Words that blame, always the same.
Belligerent words, ignorant words.
Words of beauty and of song.
Words the Saxons spoke,
or some Anglian bloke.
Welsh words, Celtic words.
Words from round the world.
Words recently known to few.
Words that Wordsworth knew.
All in Oxford's Dictionary,
even meanings lost in history.
The Oxford Dictionary
Buses are emptied unlike
many minds at this time
in the trudge to work
beneath the canopy of
buoyant barrage ballons.
Another factory day ***** in
the dark figures downcast with bad
war news and routine ritual.
But there is comfort to be had
in the chorus of familiar talk.
Lowry's painting 'Going to Work'
All winter waiting,
glowing warm inside,
with welcoming windows,
defying tide, wind and snow.
Trolls maintained a loathing
malicious watch from icy
mountain galleries above
for mishaps - so called accidents.
Then house fronts sprang to life
in rainbow colours
strung like bracelet charms
around the bay, beckoning
ships whose rigging pierced the spray.