Poem ‘Daffodil Girl’

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.

Poem ‘Chicxulub’

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.

Poem ‘The Poppy Murders’

The Poppy Murders

They have gone,
all the poppies. Gone.
Please, don’t look at me like that,
it was none of my doing and

besides, there’s too many seeds.
You would have to sift the soil
to find them all, believe me,
and you know I’m not that patient.

It’s not that I hate them, who would?
So delicate and bright,
like bloodied tissue, though
they did rather crowd the lavender

last year you must admit,
sort of snuffed it out if I recall.
In the end, with a heavy heart
I had to dig it out, remember?

So, yes, maybe I did strip them back,
(just a touch, with a scythe),
merely to protect, you understand,
that last remaining lavender bush.

And after all, we should be satisfied
that the poppy grows wild
almost anywhere. Except here.
Not anymore.

*it’s so cold here I needed something to remind me of heat!

Poem ‘Snow Again’

Snow Again

I grab a cup of tea, set out
to make something of the day.
Snow again, it brings daylight on.
They describe it as ten centimetres
which I still find hard to see.
It’s enough to cover my shoes,
that’s how I look at it
while clearing your little car.
Later, the laptop warms my knee
with Schubert declaring his genius,
when I feel the phone shudder.
A cursory text says the roads
were not too bad.
I look outside at the gathering host,
busy blots of grey and black
on white. An emerging blue.
They know the human is about
and that he has food.

Poem ‘Face’

Face

The face of winter
hangs rigid like death
pinching my ears
stabbing at my nose

Plumes of steam
from concrete slits
blur hunchback figures
shuffling through
the matte scenes
in ashen white

I’m looking for heat
stamping
flicking ash
on lunar prints
sealed in fortnight ice
waiting for steel facades
and great sheens of glass
to emanate your face
from rippling sepia shapes

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