On the Afghan trail,

red ants and black ants

face off and then shy away;

busy-ness as usual.

Show

Eight minutes left and the oboe aums

behind conversation, anticipate

flutes and piccolos tinkle, laugh

as the head of a cello dances from the pit,

a snare drum celebrates, chatter boxes chat.

Sky-blue balcony with gilded trim,

tipping water bottles, men in jackets.

Two minutes now and the buzz increases.

Sondheim’s a word in my phone, you bet

and he strains for truth, beginners please.

Speaking in Tongues

Can I forgive the youth in the park

who plucks out a rose for the laugh?

Well I never!

Can I forgive the mother who shouts at a child?

Well I never did!

Can I forgive a girl who leads-on a boy?

You don’t say!

Can I forgive a boy who leads-on a girl?

Shock, horror!

Can you forgive the surgeon who looks in the eyes

of the man in the bath with his burns

and the doctor, sighing, turns his head

not knowing the nurses had worked up some hope

and who turn on the man with a tongue-lash to re-kindle fire

into love, and then dress down the doc with their words?

A moment

Stag foraging:

white forefeet

the work of

a master:

why would the hunter

creep through longer

grass to focus

your chest?

And where has the

doe gone, quartering

further back

in the green glen?

Until she wanders

out and touches

nose to soft nose

upwind

taking a chance

together and enticing

him back under cover

of high green shrubs.

The hunter’s finger stretches,

turns, determines now what

these two wastrels

will become.

Night Owl

Andrew, even as a young man,

leaves on his bedroom light;

brightly artificial

with an open door.

It’s not that light dispels 

shadows or ghosts. No, no,

it’s to illuminate a way out

and wobble for toilet relief.

I, an older man, holding onto courage

know how darkness has wasted me,

yawning like a zero

with deep sleep a matter of

snoring and lost opportunity

until, eventually, the fuss will be over,

word and wobble.

Last orders.

Lights out.

Talking to a Yorkshire teenager,

he is not  bothered

cus he dunt know what he wants;

he’ll see wot ‘appens.

Woman

Spikey as a hedgehog

she looks into the book of life;

humble as a rabbit’s ear

she reads a sentence there.

Vibrant as a python

she walks across a dusty plain;

stronger that a mountain top

she turns to face the lion.

Breathing like a stallion

she waits before the city gate;

secret like an owl in flight,

dances to her fate.