Understanding

I sat with him at the table. He offered me bread, a goblet of wine. After I partook he gave me a quill, some parchment, his smiling eyes encouraging me to write. Somehow the quill took over, gliding across the surface with ease. Before I knew it I was looking at a line of words I didn’t recognise. I looked up at him, his kind countenance pitying my ignorance.
“Try reading it again,” he said.
I looked down — suddenly the script made sense. “Reading what I have just written, I now believe.”
A gentle smile was pursing his lips.

Copyright Francis 2020

*dVerse Monday night Prosery

Murder At The Gallery (Tuesday Poetics dVerse)

It was at the Turner Exhibition.
Hutchings was a quiet lad, for a copper;
he had a passion which no one suspected — and it got him killed.
I took the call and we all piled ’round.
There he was, wrapped up in bubble wrap,
sequestered in the store room
next to ‘Snow Storm’; not one of my favourites.
Someone had taken a scalpel to him,
a right mess he was, poor lad.
When we got to his flat there were art books all over,
though not a morsel in the fridge. Evidently Hutchings —
I shall call him George — used to feed on art.

https://what3words.com/Feed.quiet.copper

Copyright Francis Barker 2020

‘Rain’ a Poem

Contemplate the rain, this fleeting season,
changes I can do nothing about.
Sitting, watching, listening; the hanging drops
on vacant washing lines and leaves,
all testimony to nature,
that the laws of men may come and go,
yet eternal truths stand starkly before us:
Our choice to ignore.
The harder I try the less I get in return.
But the gentle rush of rain brings it back,
the raucous calls of crows
sitting in out in shedding trees;
the clutter of my mind
stands between what is me
and my self.

Copyright Francis Barker 2020

‘Avenging Wind’ a Poem

The wind strikes once more,
he’s tossing washing lines
and turning trees,
threatens to strip the ripe colour
which makes the season tolerable.
I wonder what’s made him so fierce:
He’s giving me glimpses of winter,
the lockdowns imposed,
when stepping outside
becomes a crime, where
the only feature will be the trash
blown starkly down our street

Copyright Francis Barker 2020

*We may have to find new ways to entertain ourselves this winter.

Poem: ‘Handbags’

She breezes in
as if no crisis were enveloping.

I’m asked to comment
on the bright red handbag,

glitzy, chic — expensive,
as it’s thrust in my face.

I look at her clothes,
the mask which cost more

than dinner for two.
And then the eyes. What do I see?

Nothing but sadness, emptiness
behind those roundels of blue.

So of course, the handbag is fine,
and that’s what I say, though

it’s far more than I would pay.
Gratified, she scoots off

without once asking how I am

*Fine accessories…

*dVerse Monday night Prosery

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