So should we find there is no choice
who will build a case to answer
force of arms and purpose, perhaps
to advocate a simple life with none,
or challenge views we’d closely held?
What room is there?
To choose to stand up in those times.
To accept our fate with dignity.
To grovel in denial, face down in the dirt.
Which is black or white or red?
Especially since the best are gone.
We may choose to make our play
between the black queen and the red,
the chariot and the high priestess,
until they blur together, outlines blending,
detail lost, on a random roulette spin
Knowing by custom red moves first and black responds
while red leads suit though black is trump –
but does black always follow? Must she observe
tradition and so leave room for red to breathe
or may she take initiative to end it?
Each breath we draw in genuine uncertainty
has consequence (or none) as yet unknown
no matter who should call or who may choose –
unless, unless, until black overturns the space.
Then who will be dealt with at a whim?
I was startled and perplexed –
and as ever found myself entranced –
by the constant shifting hurrying
that London brings and suckles,
when every day is born again
(to celebration with a blasé edge)
into a way of life that springs unfiltered
from the torrent of its people of the world
But cleaned and carefully dressed casually
I stepped forward past anxiety – a mark –
to slip with bundled-up uncertainty
and hope into an everyday adventure
Relating to a human face and touch,
a skin to stretch across tectonic plates of difference;
to meet and speak and hear and share
experience and lesser pain and lower-key intentions,
humdrum slices chosen and arranged with care
to convince each other and ourselves
that all is well in our lives….
Perhaps alluding to those things that underlay
to connect goodwill into an outcome