I am in the eye
of the dove sitting high, a silhouette
on the dark rising evergreen. The wind
which blew the morning washing dry
not even the birch sees fit to move, yet
look closely at the stillness, through
the mask of shade – drops are
A lone fluff of dandelion floats
in new currents unseen; a breeze,
faint and cooler, has arisen from
beyond the bare stripped fields,
whispering through the seeping
light of the year
One smile doesn’t mean I’m happy –
I’m sad without spilling a tear. I thought
everyone was down, tired of asking
why – while getting just silence in
return. Here we are all lost in
our worlds, a myriad tableaux
from which we never look out,
only in at more palatable realities,
images of love, at faces we think
we know, at war games’ killing digits,
the President’s cool tally on a screen.
There is no country here, no flag, no
dreary song to pledge our allegiance.
Whatever hue our skin
or babble we mouthe can’t disguise
that we’re all kids of Eve gently
penned into this digital snare.
She looks at me, wondering. I sense
more presence in a mannequin
brushing by, the shape comes
alive from no substance at all. Soon
we’ll be six miles high, encased in
blue sky like Air Force One, almost
untouchable, like you, Dear Maker, still
halfway round on your massive orb.
Can you ever know what you’ve done?
Beyond this I hear the cry of cows, the smell
the feel of their skin moulding my awkward repose.
Beyond this my cup is only ever half empty
in a world where size is no issue.
Beyond this line of poplar (or is it pine) lie my
yesterdays, those cold meaningless tomorrows.
Beyond this I’m just swallowed by the book
my brittle immortal wishes dashed
by the absence of my name
on the crisp yellowing leaves. And
beyond all this my sojourn on rock seven is
edged by a forgetting black, plucked gently
by wall to wall pain.