BEE REAVE
It is a courtesy and tradition to tell the bees about the death of their keeper.
Veiled
she picks her slow arthritic way
where bramble nettle hogweed
snag and twist
beneath a furnaced sky
and still
dry bleach seeded grass straw yields
if only reverence
and sombre on this blistering day
when life melts
and crumbles into ash
and YOU
might be forgiven
for thinking folly at this final act
once promised now this compose widows chore
as she
whispers by the bee box
whispers by the bee box
whispers by the bee box
whispers by the bee box
whispers by the bee box
It is a courtesy and tradition to tell the bees about the death of their keeper.
Veiled
she picks her slow arthritic way
where bramble nettle hogweed
snag and twist
beneath a furnaced sky
and still
dry bleach seeded grass straw yields
if only reverence
and sombre on this blistering day
when life melts
and crumbles into ash
and YOU
might be forgiven
for thinking folly at this final act
once promised now this compose widows chore
as she
whispers by the bee box
whispers by the bee box
whispers by the bee box
whispers by the bee box
whispers by the bee box
Moon Shadows.
Mine is the field on a starlit night
Mine is the wood when the moon shines bright
Mine is the air when the owl’s in flight
Mine is the gift and mine is the right.
Mine is the valley and the woodland stream
Mine is the crystal of a stray moon beam
Mine is the shiver of a vixens scream
Mine is the land of a monochrome dream.
Mine is the pathway fresh with dew
Mine is the thicket where the deer sneak through
Mine is the shadow following true
Mine is the listening for the keeper’s crew.
Mine is the sight through a twinkling eye
Mine is the need and the reason why
Mine is the haste as the night slips by
Mine is the prey and it’s fearful cry.
Mine is the crack of a poacher’s gun
Mine is the snare on a rabbit’s run
Mine is the ferret now the work is done
Mine and away with the rising sun.
Mine is the field on a starlit night
Mine is the wood when the moon shines bright
Mine is the air when the owl’s in flight
Mine is the gift and mine is the right.
Mine is the valley and the woodland stream
Mine is the crystal of a stray moon beam
Mine is the shiver of a vixens scream
Mine is the land of a monochrome dream.
Mine is the pathway fresh with dew
Mine is the thicket where the deer sneak through
Mine is the shadow following true
Mine is the listening for the keeper’s crew.
Mine is the sight through a twinkling eye
Mine is the need and the reason why
Mine is the haste as the night slips by
Mine is the prey and it’s fearful cry.
Mine is the crack of a poacher’s gun
Mine is the snare on a rabbit’s run
Mine is the ferret now the work is done
Mine and away with the rising sun.
1914-76 War
When he died: I could see it all clearly
and the memories become more vivid
I saw his life before mine had started
I remembered
what he had told me
about the trenches
on the Somme.
When he died: his war ended
and the guns fell silent
a white flag covered his corpse
and the smoke
from his pipe
drifted away
over the poppy fields.
When he died: the opium went with him
the mud of the trench claimed him
war became a television programme
and my world seemed
a
safer
place.
When he died: I could see it all clearly
and the memories become more vivid
I saw his life before mine had started
I remembered
what he had told me
about the trenches
on the Somme.
When he died: his war ended
and the guns fell silent
a white flag covered his corpse
and the smoke
from his pipe
drifted away
over the poppy fields.
When he died: the opium went with him
the mud of the trench claimed him
war became a television programme
and my world seemed
a
safer
place.