When God wrote me, she didn't write a cog —
as I was knit together in the womb —
a brass serrated wheel, escarpment tooth,
or part of the machine that moves the wealth,
of poor exploited people to the rich.

She did not see a lever in the church
a fulcrum in doctrinal power play:
preside at Masses - tick; play nicely- tock;
and lead the parish council meetings- clunk;
then grow the paying congregation – thunk.

She painted me a seed, organic, whole,
to grow in a lush forest, green and tall,
a tree to crack the strong foundation stone:
I'll smash the rock and sow a Kingdom’s germ.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                The Cold Kept Me in Today

The cold kept me in today
With a book, my dog, and the fire
The slanting sun, each mote-dusted ray –
It was all very like dear Tolkien’s Shire

A dampness spreads across the duvet - plop,
the rhythm ticks away in sleepless drops
of time, until my clock bell rings out loud.
Then groping, reaching, fumbling, I find stop.

Surrounded by my polyester cloud,
its cozy white insomniac soft shroud
turns starkly freezing, waiting for the light.
Another rocky field waits to be ploughed.

Against the bed’s warm gravity, I fight
to rise and face the early, bright sunlight;
still sleepy, battle to the bedroom door
and end my long and wakeful, antsy night.

In stretching daylight hours, I fight a war
to keep the grey at bay, using my store
of energy to keep me swimming, or
exhausted drown in waking sleep once more.

His hands encompass: pulling me from dirt
my terracotta wetness coats his palms
infusing nails and joints with ochre clay.
A ball of damp adobe, thunk, I’m thrown,
the wheel begins its spin, his fingers grasp
irregular alluvium, I'm smoothed
as digits delve into my focal point
their pressure firmly moulding, shaping me
into a vase, a ***, a water jug
to be what his imagination holds.

Cracked sienna and burnt umber bark
on trees fuzzy with blue green lichen,
like the stark, leafless, winter clothes,
of Highgate’s denizens.

Hazel branches stripped bare by squirrels
a foodless frosty park,
it’s Victorian bowling green surrounded
by golden paths and benches is
wild, broken, neglected
grass and concrete.

Exposed on the grass
a hungry squirrel gnaws her nut
sees danger and runs up a tree.
A dog barks and tries to climb,
loses interest,
and sniffs the inner city's air.

The park whimpers deprivation.