Wednesday, 11 January 2017


A path forms, when ground is deemed as granted,
Ground not yet conceded by the stranger
Who scans horizon, land-lie, smells the danger,
Has seen it twice before and has lamented.

The thin-edged wedges of suspicion lofted, start
To raise high ground and vale against me
Already consigned to the paths of purgatory,
Sign says ‘all for hell’ must now depart.

Streams of mirth and death flow side by side
In twin currents of certainty and doubt
Tiring and retiring, tossed about
The man made paddles searching for the tide.

Ground like time is snatched but never mine
But held in memory’s prison for a while
A plastic inch; a rictus, killing smile.
The crime of waste lies waiting down the line.

Can human pupils weep for welcome loss?
Reality caught, can never be outrun,
The minute hand can never be undone
Just heads and tails in every pitch and toss.

Where would years be but for faithful mirror
Narcissus pool fashioned from the sand
Giving, taking, soul mates of the hand
That knows not what is stroke or what is terror.

Still more steal over what belongs to others
Like sun-bred freckles of a tinker’s wife
The promise in the handle of a knife
Conspiracy has no fathers, only mothers.





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