Raptor
Over church, a windmill,
warmer hued in a meagre sun,
through copses freshly naked
and into skies of madonna blue
My eyes are led easily,
catching the swift sole movements
like a gorgeous leaf circling
in elegant fall and flight
It all brings a rare smile
to winter’s thinnest lips,
this soaring, plaintive viola—
a primed glissando on his prey
image and poem © copyright dfbarker 2012
Daffodil Girl
I took a picture of you.
The one where you’re cupping a daffodil,
kneeling in the sacred space,
where you wear your sky blue coat
with the sun in exaltation,
as if shining from your April face,
so round and vibrant and pink,
leaving me to the sombre shadows,
out of sight on the nether side.
And I was some strange Narcissus,
making sure I saw myself when
passing shop windows, always critical,
so self-absorbed and vain –
though far from glorious.
But I still remember that image,
the delicate touch of your fingers
on the flower, all caring and giving.
So thanks for being you,
for making me see beyond
this paltry vision of myself.
image and poem © copyright dfbarker 2012
poem taken from collection ‘Anonymous Lines’ available at amazon.
image partly digitally altered from a larger original.
Chicxulub
I may never get to the Yucatan
to touch the KT boundary at its thickest
that iridium layer exposed
like a line of fat in the tastiest bacon
yet this was where the asteroid slammed,
when the dinosaurs were fried
atomised or blasted by the wind;
when Cretaceous gave way to Tertiary
and little shrews crawled out
into a scene like a nuclear winter.
Chicxulub— how the strange name grates
like the sound of the still ringing earth.
Merely saying it, I get a sense of deja vu,
like a sudden blinding flash
where I glimpse the endless burials
high on the mountain of Kailash
screened on some future sky
image and poem © copyright dfbarker 2012
painting clearly not of Chicxulub but of a scene much nearer to home, namely Hunstanton, where there is at least visible strata in the cliffs.
Cameo
The morning is like copper,
a veiled threat in the sky.
We find ourselves among
patches of green poking through
a dusting of snow, scents of
woodsmoke hanging in the air.
I watch your smile break as
a blackbird alights on a bare branch,
a morsel of bread in his beak.
I shiver, adjust my coat
to find the ruff strangely
around my neck. You turn
round to see what troubles me,
your dark mantle twirling behind,
the lightness of your collar setting off
that burning gleam in your eyes,
windows on some other world.
We saunter through a sleeping garden,
hints of the dead season clinging
to brittle bushes like a bitter denial.
Standing in front of me, your soft
words are scarcely understood,
yet inwardly known. Your laugh
sends out clouds which resolve
to a gentle cough, gloved fingers
touching your chest. Without a word,
I usher you inside towards the fire
which greets us with soothing heat.
We shall warm our toes together
in its fading glow
poem and image © copyright David Francis Barker 2012
The image is from a watercolour, completed several years ago.
English Blue
Walk with me
into the grey breaking dawn
where that sticking ridge of blue –
an English blue
rolls on into soft distances
and strange dancing names
Stand with me
by those set whispering stones
in a steadfast line –
a sore English line
of rasping pipes and howling socks
mouthing our memory
like a warning to tomorrow
a land forlorn to all but itself
Then help me to bury him
not on some crying strand –
in firm English land
where hallows’ calls are grounded
our grief laid open
in the whitening bones of heroes
on this high scoured hill
*First published in ‘Poetry 24’ June 23 2011 and in the collection ‘Anonymous Lines’ available at amazon.co.uk
poem and image © copyright dfbarker 2012
This was initially inspired by the summer solstice at Stonehenge, the large gatherings there.
Then I thought of all the other generations, what they thought of the standing stones, what they meant to them.
This is also a tribute to pre-Norman England, its freedoms that were lost, so almost takes the form of an elegy to a fallen Old English hero.
Ciscography 