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
Haikus— ‘Changes’
step back little life
faces change though streets remain
cross with no regrets
spring’s hushed voice in trees
snow lingers on in furrows
earth unbends to light
poems and photograph © copyright dfbarker 2012
Your House
I’d arrived there at noon
stunned by the view
from your window,
that vast sweep of shoreline.
I had earl grey tea, some carrot cake;
you made do with strong coffee.
You said we should talk, walk,
try to mimic the clockwork sanderlings,
laugh at comic turnstones,
all busy birds of the beach
I hadn’t realised
how far we’d walked.
The polar wind which swept us along
brought stinging tears to my eyes,
though little could detract
from the sight of your house
standing steadfast against the shore;
nothing except for the florid face
all cheeky smiles and winks,
that prodding finger in my side
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.
