
Spring — nothing more could
reveal, the joy of a day.
A blossom’s fragrance
Copyright Francis 2021
Spring — nothing more could
reveal, the joy of a day.
A blossom’s fragrance
Copyright Francis 2021
Early fragrance,
sky darkening —
distant thunder
Copyright Francis 2021
The affairs of men
Appalling shenanigans
First blossom appears
Copyright Francis 2021
Doing the Work
I thought of someone
scrunching up pink paper tissues
and sticking them randomly
to scanty trees. I paused outside,
beguiled by fresh horse chestnut leaves
like little green squids,
poised in the crossing sun
When finally I sat down inside—
sustained sounds in A
all around the unravelling dark
—I knew how much sweat
went into this, his sweetest symphony.
Oh, there would be tears, applause,
cries of ‘bravo!’ and the house
might well be brought down— eventually.
None of them saw the bitter tears
or heard the harsh cussing.
And they never had to sit
through the long silences
or watch him toss batons aside
and wipe that heavy brow.
More than once he must’ve wished
to be somewhere else—
in the grip of a glacier, perhaps?
At the break
I stumbled out into an evening
among smokers, a kerfuffle of gulls.
We watched a lone magpie emerge,
sneaking off with leftovers,
the keener eye winning
with the merest effort
poem and image © copyright df barker 2012
The first warm wind of spring
whispered threats in his ear.
Not even blossom bedecking
knolls of the smoking temple
embraced by those steepening hills
could turn the colour of his mind.
“I can’t feel a part of this,” he said.
He watched her take a piece of bread
and a cloud passed before her eyes.
Neither his touch or choicest word
would have any effect
and no amount of wisdom exuding
from centuries of contemplation
could prevent him feeling alone.
Their minds would never mingle
like fresh sandalwood in mountain air.
All he saw was a set of blue irises,
statements of beauty
and perhaps an intent
poem © copyright df barker 2012