Bleak is the day,
cold clouds drift miserably
above sodden fields
where hawthorn hedgerows
weep at summer’s memory.

No sun to warm the soul,
no cheer within
the tumbled cot
where sheep now stand
a-sheltering behind old walls.

Dog sniffs damp air,
his collie breath steams and curls
as we secure the gate and make
our long, sleet-ridden
way homeward.

Tonight we shall sit by the fire,
he and I, dreaming
of snow-white lambs,
cornflower skies and
warm, sunlit meadows.

Meantime there’s crackling to chew
and drink to keep away the chill,
for we both know that
the Green Man sleeps,
and that winter is upon us.

Why do ye fight, ye little men,
that strut like ***** afore their hens?
Religion, pride or avarice -
are all wars fought because of this?

So near are ye unto the ground
ye see so little, hear no sound
save childish voices, raised in hate,
as ye proclaim some new estate.

Whilst far beyond this lonely world,
in splendour ‘midst the clouds unfurled,
an angel sadly shakes his head
as new born babes replace the dead.

For men learn little, so it seems,
however long their span of dreams;
On heaven’s maps drawn high above
there are no borders, only love.

Grey October dawning, mist hangs low in woodland
Fading is the season, beech and oak leaves falling
Tangled are the brambles, overgrown and berried
Spider in her leaf-hide, sees her web bejewelled
Drowsy cattle standing, breath and wet flank steaming
Sunrise gleams on water, streamlet coldly flowing
Wasted grasses leaning, trampled under hoofprint
Fern and mosses greening, close by wall of sandstone
Early sings the sparrow, yarrow flowers whiting
Sluggish flies the bee now, nectar scarce inviting

Owl in tall tree sleeping, shuns the day awaking
Fox in earthen breastwork, sated now from hunting
Rabbit sniffs the morning, burrow mouth beguiling
Scent of mould and mushroom, undergrowth pervading
Fallen tree trunk rotting, spotted red with fungus
Naked roots stand grasping, fingers locked in death throe
Down in dew clean meadow, foal lies red and stillborn
Sadly stands the old mare, one year past her blessing
Nevermore to call home her stallion by evening
Hidden in the hawthorn, behind the leaves a-turning
Carrion crow watches, waiting for her leaving
Patience is his virtue, soon to know the feeding.

Awkwardly leaning forward, sloping over damp, brown earth,
stands a young boy’s chiselled memory.
Above rooks caw incessantly in budding branches,
yet little ever grew beneath the great yew’s venerable shadow.

Here beside cold, forgotten, lichened stones,
thin pale weeds strain for scarce obtainable light.
Small insects forage through fallen leaf litter
whilst passing squirrels move swiftly on, sniffing decay.

Lettering barely legible, a long-dead stonemason’s art
serves only now as a brief refuge for tiny red mites;
and yet for those with eyes to see a tragic tale is here,
a tale two hundred years in the telling.

“Hic Iacet Poor Benjamin,
who did Fall into some Awful Vat
within his Father’s Manufactory,
whereby he Perished,
Scalded like a Cat.
No more the Trees of Youth he’ll Climb,
for Ten Short Years was all his Time.”

Awkwardly leaning forward, sloping over damp, brown earth,
stands a young boy’s chiselled memory.
Above rooks caw incessantly in budding branches,
yet little ever grew beneath the great yew’s venerable shadow.

One dreary morn they found me,
stored away from public view
within some time-forgotten annex,
where few dared ever venture
save the morbid, strange or curious.

A label hung around my wrist,
though none could now decipher
words once written bold in ink  
by some long-dead medic’s hand.  
(‘Tis true, a man once consigned me here.)

And so today you see me lying prone
within a white-walled room.
Blue lights glare down upon
my twisted shape, my ravaged torso,
my empty sockets and my grinning jaw.

What tales I could tell them,
these two masked women!
How once, when a child in London Town,
was I drugged and drowned,
then sold to meet the surgeon’s knife!

Not for me, the gracious innocence of death;
not for me, warm tears, soft prayers
upon a flower strewn grave!  
For I fell victim to the cursed Body Snatchers,
sold for thirty silver pieces by the hospital gate.

So now here I lay, rib-cage rent asunder,
vermilion wax pumped hard-set into
cold blood vessels, cranium sawn in half.
I raise my hand to greet you, for
they say I died to further science.

Imprisoned in some nameless jail
and, like ten thousand inmates pale,
I counted time I could not feel,
I stood on head, and then on heel.

So turn and turn again about,
like other tortured souls I shout;
yet am not heard, my temples pound,
beneath life’s torrents am I drowned!

Ignored am I, like one and all,
save for the early morning call
that shakes us from our torpor, aye,
and then we fall like hail from sky.

Inevitably down through time
we are mere specks, as dust and grime,
yet in our falling purge our sin,
our labours end, then re-begin.

For lost are we within this sphere,
for all eternity, I fear!
A universe where all are ******;
we are the Timer’s grains of sand.

Ponderous, she lumbers on
through frozen wastelands,
shaggy body bejewelled  
with a million icy diamonds.

Keen is the wind,
born in the high peaks
and honed to razor sharpness
over groaning, green-blue glaciers.  

Head raised to bitter skies,
she bellows a mournful, unanswered cry
against distant night-black conifers,
bowed and encrusted with fallen snow.  

Long tusks scrape the ground now
in search of hidden mosses,
for hunger is upon her, and she is
oblivious to the hunters’ approach.  

Squat are these bearded skin-clad men,
hair-matted, breath steaming, gesturing quickly,
moving ever closer, surrounding,
stepping out silently,
flint-tipped spears and arrows poised.  

And then the sudden cry of attack!
Again and again the thud of flint into flesh!
Stone into bone!

Shouting wildly, the hunters
circle rapidly, calling on
their long-dead ancestors
to witness the great shrieking beast
brought down in agony;
until at length they halt exhausted,
their pent up energy spent.

And as the moon rises above the far horizon
an awful silence falls across the bitter wastes.

For it is done,
and the last mammoth
is no more.