Here are five poems for your pleasure all are by myself
I am symbiotic, a cognate part of the machine we are,
Rust specks, swarf and filings returned to the melting point of origin.
Tomorrow my flesh will be a scrap-heap for others
To weigh, to pour, to mould, to Bessamerise.
Worry not about this brittle casting of a man today,
Tomorrow I may be drawn through dies and gauges,
A string on the Zither of rebirth.
Rain sat upon the city, smothering sound cast its shadow over the landscape An oppressive thing bloated and eldritch It passed judgement, attempted to wash Away the marks of man.
At times it sat quiescent on the hills Its gaze observed – the constant hum of Tangible being clashed with a distant Barking while city beat Its feeble carrion heart
Consumed greenery like some obnoxious Cancer, red brick, coal stacks and etched granite; Topped by verdigris competed with nature’s natural greenery My vision faded as the fog beast settled, Encompassed me in its wet embrace.
Do not mourn for me, while I have passed through this portal ,
My feathers are still bright, stark against the cold white lintels.
Remember my life not my passing.
I am Turdidae or Thrush to you, not a pest but an explorer
Bringer of life, ornithochory, the planter of seeds.
Your fruits, flowers, I delivered them across oceans.
Watched such inchoate wonders, soared, free from gravities.
The Ghost of Brae
Today I reached the choking Tree, the Periapsis of my walk.
Here as ever I stopped to catch my breath, the world burnt
My senses, lungs feebly grasped respite.
Here I knelt, my head between my knees, sought supplication
From the green ???. Two ravens nestled in the black branches above,
Overlooked the city below and I remembered.
I remembered your tales Edie, hands crippled by arthritis,
Made Sunday lunches, shared family secrets; the banshee,
The raven and the shipyard-rigger etched into my subconscious.
You told me tales of the family ghost, one who would
Manifest when a powerful matriarch was soon to pass:
She howled for your mother, grandmother, your aunt.
I wonder, Did she howl for you? Only women heard her cry.
I missed your last breath, tied up in literature and learning,
Visited between classes, so proud of accomplishments.
The Raven you said, came for our family as well, only the
Men were touched by its call if he visited three times,
Locked eyes and looked inwards, then a man would die.
Conversely if the Raven sat on the fence and stared outwards,
Change would come take away her touch on silken wings.
The rigger, a link to the Titanic, a great granda who worked
On that tragic vessel fell from the mast and spent his days
Slowly bleeding out, his sheets, the bed and the floor soaked.
That mark never faded no matter how much they scrubbed,
The room that remained locked. I can breathe now,
So I turn to head home, the ravens take wing and fly with me.
The New Eden
Today an angry God erased my world.
Each step my foot-fell, sounded hollow
through which I created in small matters the world anew.
A shape sprang into form before my eyes
I christened it tree, soon joined by hedge,
bush and magpies.
A narrowed viewpoint, cotton-wool thoughts,
the world hid from my senses.
I started from scratch, somewhere I heard feral kittens
Call from the banked-up earth,
sound has no direction here.
Dew-like a second skin coated my frame,
my teeth chattered in the gloom
squirrels threw chestnuts from their dray.
Soon creation was complete,
I stood on the precipice, admired my work
Remade, I basked in morning sun.