Noise

We sang a hymn,

‘Silent Night’

praising Him;

sounding great

and then we fell into

wisdom and quiet.

Waving not Standing

For ages I wanted to write a poem;

about a tree – a winter tree outside our bedroom window -

standing black against a blue-grey sky,

its branches reaching out into fine and finer

silky twigs against a leaden cloud behind

with an occasional old leaf clinging

against its wooden lattice; and of a miracle

that sometimes happens on a still December day

when one leaf starts to twitch and move,

by forces unbeknown turns and grows

in amplitude until it waves a vigorous and happy

wave whilst all the rest around stand still. A wave

like that cries out for resonating souls and yes

I wanted to write that poem for ages.

No Phantom

After all our fun and smiling,
father looks away – so tired
and hugs his chair for feeling,
knowing that more is required.

He turns and his kids are smiling
in a cloak and dagger ring
so he joins in their circle of feeling;
rehearsals are over, now sing.

Loose Change

A couple of coins, bright and cold, lie

on a table in a rushing train - flat.

Outside winter hurtles ashen grass

and bare branches, an occasional hill.

As this carriage sways, an engine hums

(engineers rule when gods stand still). Ultimately

journeys complete and I’ll arrive back home

to the sum of a cold bed, no light in the kitchen,

hungry under a darkening dome, I’ll catch

pan handles, cook and eat without grace to this earth;

dumb to a taste of the Present, forgetting

what it’s worth to close both eyes without recalling

underworld times, my past in darkness (young

and clumsy) a reticent fellow or zoom to the future ,

grabbing for purchase onto this NOW that travels forever.

Touching coins remind me of love but, in winter, dark

comes early and always from above, cashing in

with bye bye to daylight, goodbye passing train,

goodbye past and future images. Today I have a

better plan - to hit bullseye without circling:

by being me in essence and form, currency

and appearance, until appearance disappears

and my inner man grows warm by being and ‘not being’

both together. Yes there are two coins within this realm,

lying near each other, intimate as a dream,

and certainly not final when they spin

and overturn their weight, because money

equals power, tomorrow or today, making bread

or music or little children grin by a gift

of coins or even making engines hurtle

when a new driver clocks-on and history

repeats coin, coin, iron and true

spent and spent until oblivion melts

with others in a final wealth-pool or

plummets with a crash unpredictably but also

certainly - like trees and Banks. But for now

two coins begin a next phase of transaction;

a turn and spin, then stop, what next? Enough.

Late Middle Age

Author of Autumn sulked

in a corner. Again he had raced

into third place, won bronze,

and so he hid in shadow

camouflaged by leaves,

concealed by longer hair and hanging briars.

He had finally got the idea

- he was not a bonny summer

or glitter of winter.

‘Why me!?’ he shouted into corners,

lugged branches off trees in a strop,

battered gulls into silence.

Later, he filled valleys with misty breath

before an amber sun lifted

him high to air

and with much more room to slow

he perceived how, in limited light,

light is a priceless gift.

After rage he waves and sings,

rattles a hedgerow with magical voice

‘Howl often! Hush!’