Shylock’s lament
Rates go up, as well as down
And an unpaid surer cannot be sound
A penny short requires an eye or a tooth
We have to live and that’s the truth
Some call me base, my trade so seedy
But want my money, then call me greedy
Pay me my gold, that’s my solution
I care not for UN Resolutions
Debts require satisfaction- prompt and fresh
Or I grab my due, a pound of flesh
My red hat is not for show or flounce
It shows my clients I am about to pounce.
Cypress Kneewood
Ripped from the bayou
Dry forlorn awkward
Casual memory
Knotty, smooth, uneven to the touch
Sanctuary to alligators
A thousand years old
With tales to tell
You stare out, all seeing
Petrified
Left side/right side
It is easy
I can feel my right side
But not my left
Hot or cold? Sharp or blunt?
Who can tell?
Threading a seat belt
Or closing a zip
Is beyond left side me
I was half way down the supermarket aisle
When I realised I had my right shoe only on
An urgent retrospective hunt recovered
The left
Stranded in the car park
Abandoned
Where it fell.
On the shore
It sweeps in
Granting
absolution, forgiveness, redemption, certainty
Completing its task relentlessly, slavishly, completely
Twice daily
Salving, soothing, cleansing reassuring
Nourishing, caressing and scouring
Beckoned by the sun and the moon
Dunkirk and D Day
Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail.
we shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France,
We shall fight on the seas and oceans,
We shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be,
We shall fight on the beaches,
We shall fight on the landing grounds,
We shall fight in the fields and in the streets,
We shall fight in the hills;
We shall never surrender,
Unless I have a TV interview to save my skin of course..
For David
Fresh air
Was the cure for everything
And so it was, that day
In his cot, not yet two
Wrapped and warm
In his pram
For half an hour or so
Who can tell?
There is so much washing to do
Until it was time
To discover his lifeless body
Pneumonia they said
Who can tell?
She never told me what happened
I felt what happened, from her
For years to come
But the words were never spoken
Ever
I do not know his birthday
I do not know his death day.
Or funeral day
I tried to escape through my aunt’s
Bathroom window
But at three, there is no escape
There never is.
Stornoway
North.
Very far north.
Where night is a brief intrusion on day.
Where Glasgow is for southern softies,
and the seas, sky, and buildings have been painted grey.
At Halloween
Outside, the half light hesitated
Uncertain
Inside blackness
Lurking behind drawn curtains
While ghostly figures perambulated
Lost souls forever fated
To roam this cloying earth
At this time,,this place, his hour
With nefarious intent,to seize and devour
Shadowy sprites, cold s death
Moving amongst night’s misty shroud
The demon’s breath
To ham to cripple to burn to maim
Consumed by the devil’s flickering flame
Poems
Do not trust the Mirror
You are older than you look
More beautiful than you imagine
Your imperfections less pronounced
You are closer than you imagine
Your faults further away
Concave or convex
Who knows
The light
At that angle
Momentarily
Illuminates the darkness
Which you feel
Images are transposed
Left to right
Right to wrong
In the blink
Of an Eye
( after Sarah James)
That Last Carry
You were six and a half
And had not asked for one in months
But the wind and the slopes
The myriad points of interest
Along the promenade
Had all sapped you
You said nothing
Just stood in front of me and threw your arms out
As if in pious supplication
You slumped over my shoulder
In grateful abandonment
Heavier than I last remembered
Your panting breath stroking my neck
Subsiding into synchronised rhythm with my pace
Maybe, in the future, you would walk beside me
Hand in hand
If I was lucky.
( after Mathew Stewart)
For Pete 1959- 2024
Stornoway Part 2
North.
Very far north.
Moscow north
Where night is a brief intrusion on day.
Where Glasgow is for southern softies,
And the seas, sky, and buildings have been painted grey.
Your daughter sent me the news to say
Her image that of her mother forty years ago
You were my Best Man
And I remembered those pints of IPA
And our unsteady walks home
Cementing a steady kinship
And the songs- another music in a different kitchen
In Stornoway you introduced me to scallops the size of cricket balls
And waves the size of cliffs, and cliffs the size of waves.
And beaches white, with skies sometimes blue
And a culture proud to be different, on its own
I understood that
You had found home.
“Reclining on a seaweed-upholstered chaise longue of gneiss…”
That will do – and it did.
You urged me to visit the Callanish Stones, I did
With views unchanged for five thousand years
You returned where your ancestors, had walked
And had seen the Stones too.
When I next see them, I shall see you.
Pasta energetically
I like pasta, pale, and white
Perfectly formed a slimmers delight
Which do I like best? that would be taglietelling,
With creamy sauce aromatically smelling
But after a mouthful, written by penne, I might
Pea pods and butter beans
luxuriating in summer’s warmth, ,
Where green on green, a vibrant sheen,
Hangs heavy, plump, a verdant prize,
The pea pods swell before my eyes.
A gentle snap, satisfying sound,
Tiny pearls perfectly round,
Fresh from the vine, sweet delight,
Coaxed into readiness
in the suns , golden light.
Beyond broad leaves lazily spread,
The butter beans, a creamy bed,
Lie nestled close, a mattish hue,
Kissed by the morning’s diamond dew.
They’re gathered now, a kitchen’s boon,
Beneath the glow of afternoon,
The butter beans, a melting dream,
Bathed in butter’s golden gleam.
Pea pods and buttered beans, a pair,
A simple feast beyond compare,
A taste of summer, fresh and bright,
A garden’s gift, a pure delight.
Sometimes I just sit
Why walk, when I have arrived?
I do not look,
I am neither dazzled by brightness
Nor cowed by the dark
I do not listen, for I have already heard too much
I do not raise my nostrils to the breeze seeking a transitory aroma which will come and go, fleetingly
Already I have tasted what the day has had to offer
I do not speak, enough has been said
Sometimes I just sit
You should try it.
Janet Device – The Witch Child
Nine years old, already bitter
Cast aside as the runt of the litter
Always making tea with the kitchen kettle
But nursing a grudge
For she had scores to settle
Her mother, brother and sister
On her list were top
And for it they were to pay
The price – the hangman’s drop
Her mother took the form of a familiar she declared
A brown barking dog, no-one was spared
While king and prosecutors and politicians wrangled
Ten innocents from a tree lifelessly dangled.
Source Lindsey Davis There Will Be Bodies
Throwing Shapes
And how will we be when the moment comes?
contorted agony, howling agony –
or slipping gently into the night?
A final mazy movement in the moment
Wild crazy bends
Or angular jolt
That this is how it ends.
From that first blast of light on the day of our birth
To the plummeting darkness of our last day on Earth