Deva (short version)

Thrax was sharp and distinctive:
replete in his fine scalar armour
an authentic steel helmet, a local wool cloak
and a girded flat sword – that cuts and thrusts,
which marked him…  as he spoke

to advocate an outlook long gone
save for fragments – of stone and mosaic,
of formative concepts and habits of thought;
to sketch lives as they came to a crossing
of wilderness and west…

between sardonic indentured veterans
watching for rewards
against chaotic encountered clansmen
breathing for respect;
bound in kind by skeins of customs.

from the gullet

I stood on the hill where the barges had gone
through the locks or the inclined plane,
draining the guts of the country downhill
to force its carbon promise free

In forsaken tribute from miners and stokers
who gave their lives unequally to fuel
propelling power in blind direction,
while the worth of a man was measured
by craft – and the gift of a bottle forbye…

I stood on the hill where my family had waited
for children to come, in the wake of TB –
and had me, who was glad to escape
and walk away without intent or purpose
at the second opportunity;

When I had fought against my brother
and let my father die,
on a day when smoke hid the sun
like a cloud, I went home.

along the human highway

Footsteps:
the canvass steps
the ageing steps
the display steps
the forceful steps
the steps with purpose
the lighthouse-seeking steps
the ritual morning steps
the adventurous steps
the tentative steps
the steps for fun / leading who knows where

Stretching out beneath
the horizontal rainbow flags
the frantic red, the calming yellow
the emergency aid cross

Until the tide-line breaks
across the cooling breeze
so its waves come sweeping in,
their shimmering serpent forms
released before the breakers roar

emotional verdict

Pausing in empathy, to facilitate
stepping stones across the street:
a random act of kindness, outlined while it snowed

Contrasting / against frigid slices of pretence
inhaled or eaten raw / reflecting
an icy high professional disdain

Of passion. Disguised in everyday encounters.

Kept warm across embers of humanity
but cooled by us, before our judgment seat
until a fearful anger writhes / and rises up

To spill an empty nest of therapy:
from the pressing churning sensitivity,
for an inveterate chameleon / never having fun.

Emergency

Occasionally there is a death.

A direct shocking abrupt termination
of that person’s hopeful journey in a jagged tragic crash
of horror, pain and blood and dirt and aftershocks.

Fragments.  Sending eddies in the flow for miles

And an hour or so of people’s lives
claimed by the entirety of one, at random:
all too fully human but diminishing with distance…

Fading…  Until the beat resumes…

the princess, dressed/bare

I sensed its chill: a skin of fishscale and of early light
on lingering sea mist beyond the limestone wall,
a gossamer translucence across her graceful bones

Which once held power at bay – but were cast down
since she had been so brave and dared and lost;
the chosen in dissent, fated to be free
plundered by her enemies, forgotten by her friends

To be remembered later / in a sweet and clumsy way
as people come and go / and stop and stare
in shallow speculation / at the finery and weeds
of a bold abandoned princess / pale daughter of the sea

Whose pretty ghost can count for little now, except for play
by kings or strident citizens or idle revellers,
her corse still dressed before, stripped bare behind…

Their humbled vibrant sacrifice, borne prostrate unto God.