beige-headed cloud bird, i watch from the warm
as great circles crooning o’er chimney and slat
you glow in brown crimson ‘gainst light of morn.
wise eyes scour like ice, for vole, bird or rat.
o’er treetops thou drift in mighty estate,
while blackbirds and seagulls claw at thy wing.
grey snow clouds desperate to unload cold weight
are but wet, windy backdrops for what thy bring.
i’m at the window. i’m waiting still,
hot fingers steaming — hips leant on the sill.
i’ll watch as you dive through eight o’clock’s sky
yet inward thank that my food’s not so high.
red kite in thy splendour, teach me of death —
teach me the true treasure of each full breath.
a rich gold scarf does bind his forehead. jaw
of divine carving, he will gaze until
we all have crumbled into dust and bone.
he holds the midpoint, some curator’s will
to herald hedonistic man’s delight
has kept him cardinally on this wall.
i wonder would we know his face at all,
had desperate hearts been satisfied and right.
behind me, on the left is one who gave
much deeper praise to that which selfish man
took and took and took because ‘we just can’;
he is peasant poetry, calm and grave.
nature’s deft spokesman, soft as summer’s breeze
in orange fields immortal with sweet ease.
the movie buffered on and hummed all morn,
as does the cricket in his grassy cove.
girls spake loud of frizzy playground chat
as down beneath the sil’vry pond it dove.
the lonely chapel is bright
in new electric light,
coloured glass and polished wood of old
burnished in our wake.
the room smelled like daffodils
and we were out of milk.
for a dry, dappled morning –
i wore my wide-leg trousers
and felt fine.
pages, pages, pages
dripping in incongruity;
train tracks, and European travel nudging
the green hills of England.
– ‘i am so, so pleased.’
my splendid white house sings virtue.
you must be one way, just this way
with Betty bangs and bobs,
who write about the Mona Lisa
and dream of being her,
there is a lotion for that loathing, it pays for the print.