Blood Flowing Out

Blood is flowing out,

As a meander, in the thing, slips back in.

Walls of grief like weather fronts

Have battered this island for days,

Named storms, like Britain’s;

Tearing at the social fabric, from within actually

Because we’ve forgotten personal sovereignty

Our language craving creativity

As we buy leave, like our leaven

With our anxiety.

And battles are STILL being fought in this body.

The wars are being waged IN my body;

A ravaged body

May seem like collateral, but is the endgame,

Did you know? Until they’re still,

Until Rome has come, and gone, again,

And prophets have ceased their howling,

What chance to even hear their own truth?

This moon glancing cool across desert growing

Whispers: ‘Quieten children, liSSSSten…’

Blood is flowing out,

As a meander in the thing, slides back in.

And I wanted to show you how I pray

But I was sobbing in the corner;

A no with which I’m creating space for a thousand

More joys in a bigger YES!

Til then I’m battening down:

Let my winds howl, like the wild things

Across the craters, that will form the lakes

From which will birth our tomorrows.

2015, Hard Rain

Another Path

There’s another path:
Behind the towpath,
Beyond the hedgerow,
It shimmers with elderflowers
Like snow.

Who’s using that?
Not the joggers,
Clagged feet and clogged memory.
Amongst the hemlock;
A slower amble.

You slip and follow.
Inspiration; a tang of cicely
For your songs.
Sneak into the wet spots,
Track deer into the pool.

A still trap of
Easy-green pondweed.
This isn’t solid ground;
There’s no hard standing.
Kingfisher flash:

Dart with it into the gloom
Between falling walls
And rotting fences.
Is this a path? Or a desire;
To slide away into the rushes.