Rich or poor,
gay, straight, bi
black, white, brown
we are all going to die,
death is a person we cannot elude
from the day we arrive
we are already *******
by the man with the cowl
a non-partisan dude

Do I yearn for you,
not much,
I miss the lightness of your touch
the warmth of hands that held my own,
memory tells me I am not alone
yet you are gone,
the heart I used to hold
a wounded bird which faded into air,
yes I miss you sometimes,
but only when you are not there

Up before the birds,
before the sheep
and the barking farm dogs have had a chance to rise,
before the sun in a waking sky has washed her face
there is me, and the rabbits of course,
there are always nibbling rabbits
they pay me no heed as I ignore them,
cobwebby air that smells of wet stone walls and hazelenuts
a damp little mourning for summer
still with us, but only just
she is fading, her breath grown stale
what was once a fine full featured woman of elegant proportions
is not the girl she was and somewhat over-ripe,
shriveled hag or blousy old ****, who knows,
september will see to that
he could be kind and let her keep her looks for a bit,
a single singing sheep, baas contralto through the fence
followed by her sisters, one of whom is definitely flat,
which stirs the dogs,
then birds, and a raven’s mocking call from the trees
coughing tractors vape their owners into life
and the radio clicks,
because apparently the old ***** won’t start!
a jostling theatre crowd of noise and neighbours
Mrs O’Malley from the farm up the road
is out for her power walk with Dan,
she waves at the gate
Dan wags his tail and eyes my biscuit,
tough luck Dan, she is watching,
I have not come to the world
the world has come to me
all along the valley they are waking now
a glorious cacophany
the Cavershiveen volcano rumbles into being
except for him indoors, he’s still snoring like a bull
in a minute I will take him tea and biscuits
wake him gently from his beige accountant dreams
whatever they are?
and we can start the day together
except of course mine started long ago
with only the silent sky and the hills for company
he will never know that I embraced the dawn
and sipped my coffee with the old gods
Lugh and Dagda and Brigid
I have been their respectful guest
ancient Irish faces he will never know
unless I choose to tell him so

Our connection,
is a pale moon above
and stars that shine
they are yours as they are also mine,
we feel the grey of falling rain
the warmth of joy
and the chill of pain,
we live we love, we laugh and we die
with the same yellow sun
and the same blue sky

Raw,
a grey knuckle-***** day,
when the wind blows through my skin
pulling at the cord
which holds my insides in,
oh infernal internal wall
keeping without without
and within within,
off key Wednesday
crashing chords that I have swallowed
not a passing thought for the blue tunes of tomorrow,
or the music I have made thus far in life
and the ones that I have begged or borrowed
as always I’ll wait for it to pass
fill the gallow glass
to fetch me a drink while I think
but no-one is near
my fault, not because I fear them
I hear them in the hall
scratching
but I don’t let them in
it would give them a chance to win
I need them on my page
to take away the blank
fill it with ink
because being empty stinks
I don’t want the void
empty yarn from a ragged yawning hole
so I’ll sleep,
hope to feel when I wake
no idea how much more time it is going to take
will it break me or make me
perhaps I will try the fake me
the one with the smile
the one I revile
but there it is
sat on my face
smug and satisfied,
all while I’m melting away
a Dali soft watch
on this raw knuckled day

No savage charm
no ancient witches hex,
no juju whispered low,
no knuckle bones to throw
or runic text to read and call you to your fate
poets have no powers,
no dark and evil incantations,
we weave a net of words
and lure you in with our creations

People call me a pixie
they say I'm mischievous,
I'm actually evil
but also quite devious