Found.
The pebbles roundness,
worn smooth on its journey
to the sea
slowed for a time
by its rest on the river bank,
fits in the palm of my hand.
On hearing of the death of Beryl Rubens
.
And so another voice has fallen silent,
And for a moment the wintering wild birds
No longer sing in the skies.
And I walk amongst stone angels
And there is no comfort for me here.
Tears of sadness do not pierce
The emptiness of where a heart should be.
And your expressionless eyes
Stare down unchanged
Over the days, over the years.
Here there are carved words
On smooth milled stone,
Each letter, each word
A fragment of a life’s story
A momento to last an Eternity.
So many words worn away
By the hard edged rain
Of so many winters past.
Expressions of love, of duty done,
The reward of rest in heaven.
And the remembrance always
Of those who follow.
Followers themselves now dead
So that the grave lies forgotten.
And the words meaning lost.
But I will think of your life now
And of what you have meant
To me and those who knew you
And will always treasure you
And your life’s memory.
I smile at the remembrance
Of the sound of your violin,
Of your laugh and delight,
And your strength and determination
To fight for those broken needlessly.
I do not need stone angels now,
Or the waste of aged sentiments.
Life has always been precarious.
It is enough that you were here.
And I will light a candle for you.
Uncertain times.
I see only forgotten men
Living in places
With once famous names.
I hear only words
Of tales and deeds
Of days of men and women
Long since forgotten
Long since dead.
And in these times of uncertainty
People live surrounded
By purposeless decline
A landscape of waste
And those twisted lines
Of once white shone steel
Polished by the unceasing grind
Of the turning wheel
Now lying hidden by elder.
And gathering the dirt brown stain
Of rust and disuse
Map out the death struggle
Of this dark place
And in this uncertainty people live.
Writhing in its decay
Its history ensnares
the withering and hopeless present.
But its people refuse to cry out.
Anger has been replaced
By that silence of regret
That pitiless lament
Of resignation and acceptance.
Some say it is our age
As if we were born in other times
And others days
Or as if this turmoil
And unceasing uncertainty
Was not of our own making.
It has taken one hundred years
To silence and to forget
And to carve away with such precision.
One hundred long hard years
To isolate those memories
To purge our dreams
And cut with all the accuracy
Of liquid golden steel
The misery of generations
The torments of our people
Of the years of our childhood
And before.
We can do nothing
We can say nothing
We are not listened to.
This is the song of our people
We suffer we suffer
We have cried too much
We have cried too long
And we have become lost.
But do not stir us
For we are dark dogs
We are shadow dogs
We sleep in motionless terror.
Do not speak to our hearts
Of indignities of suffering.
Do not kindle our hatred.
Do not evoke words to spur
Our slumbering emotions.
We sleep we sleep.
In Silence
That strange silence
When did it first occur?
Were there no witnesses?
Did no one see its coming?
Had it been something gradual?
Something that had begun
Without our knowing.
Or with that abruptness
That quickness of the blade
That cuts and severs
And life without knowing
Without recognising its own going
Seeps silently away.
That strange silence
When did it first occur?
Were our eyes turned away?
Our intelligence caught
By other curious happenings.
Was it that? Simply
A distraction of sorts.
Or was it something
That we secretly welcomed?
And now if there are regrets
It’s too late, much too late.
All that has been is no longer
All that may have been
Is now silent and forgotten.
Who will remember?
Or will it become
A few pages here and there
Of names and muttered words?
Some faint remembrances?
That strange vision
Of people blackened
Standing in cobbled streets
Faces turned towards camera
Their eyes watching
Looking but seeing nothing.
And we see nothing of them.
Their world our past
A fleeting glance caught
On the papers gloss
And in this hour I ask
Is that all that remains?
That strange silence.
Of words and truth.
Like grasses bundled
And withered in storm
We are blown helplessly
And not a word is spoken.
Who sings the authentic song?
Who speaks the words of truth?
Who stands for me and mine?
Who looks at what we see?
Who hears what we hear?
Who breathes the air we breathe?
Who sees what is right and wrong?
Who speaks for me and mine?
Who sings the authentic song?
Where are our heroes and poets now?
Untitled
Untitled.
It was painful that experience
Of first love and the abruptness
Of that unexpected separation
Rejection how else was I supposed
To understand your disappearance.
You believed in direct action.
And I had walked away from Christ
But not the teaching of love
Supporting violence was not my cause.
It was the first and last time we argued
And then you were gone
And love. My love was left
Fluttering in the darkness.
I’d thought it was better to work
From within. A compromise
You’d said. I wanted no labels
Attached to me. But no matter
What I said or did to avoid this
Providing the machine with an excuse
To dismiss. Devoid of reason
They went ahead in any case.
For forty years I’d worked
To help and speak for those
Appointed and anointed as the cause
Of societies shame and failings.
And at a time when I was brought
to my knees and my belief
and hope suddenly made to falter
I sought you out – that place
that time when it felt like
there was a degree of certainty
to see what you had done
with your life and whether you’d found
an answer or even happiness
The first search brought up
Your face from a photograph
In your obituary I recognised
had been taken at that time.
In that place that house
Where we had lived together
And you were gone again.
Lost Messages
Time redefined
Time redefined
And now
Am I marooned here
You told me to go
Go go go go go
When you decided
That it was done
That you were done
With me.
But I have been left here
Somehow
Then now
Now then
Time stands still
For some things
Trapped in this silence
Now and then
A fracturing of time
Fractured?
Torn?
Shredded?
Ripped?
Sheered?
I struggle
For words.
Its not true
That time heals
It simply
Loses pain
I am like a bell
That has not chimed
For so long
I am not silent
Only in quietness
Will you hear
The deep vibration
Of my calm
I can’t make
Up for lost time
Making up
For lost time
What time?
Who’s time?
A clock,
Clocka
Clagan
Or Clocc
A silent
Instrument
Missing a bell
Is called
A Time piece.
I clock you
You you you you
You. And you!
I watch you you
You and you.
And you.
Ravens rise
Severn morning.
Encircling.
Encircling.
The grassed land yields
to the spades sharp edge.
It has been many a year
since this soil was last laid bare
and now as the upended sods
are lain on their backs
so that the turf lies buried.
I smell the earth’s sweetness
and feel a light breeze
touch the back of my hand,
the sun on the hill line
reminds me of the time of day
and a chill begins to cool
the sweat on my back.
Before gathering the tools
I stop and stand straight
old Oaks in the woods
loose their brown leaves.
to lie on the woodland floor.
The fluttering clattering fall
shatters the day’s quiet.
Young Oaks on the field edge
sway, waving gently
holding their leaves tight
waiting for the warmth
of a late spring day
as if unwilling to relinquish
memories of summer, of youth.
A thought of children
now. And another
encircling year begins.
old habits
die hard, oh the irony. it takes a while to remember, something acted out in childhood, returns some years later, without intention, without memory. until some while lat…
Source: old habits
