Tuesday, December 13, 2016

Twenty-Two

East Kent, 13 December 2016


Hard to think it now I know
but you were only twenty-two
when we first met and wooed
and surprised ourselves to see
that we would soon be wed.
From the unique vantage point
of our little, one-bedroom flat
in stucco-fronted NW5 when
letting fall your velvet dress
under waist-encircling arm
I studied your round back
its hourglass shape, milky skin
and pretty, burnt-toffee moles
like constellation spread
on mattress without bed
(I counted five and told you so).

You sunk your all in all for me
who might have been a ratbag
and tosser. Who’s to know?
Now our kids are twenty-two
and hooking up like we did.
Hadn’t we better warn them?
Surely there are things
that they should know?
No. Just let it go.

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

The Hare

SW France, 30 November 2016

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
I heard the poet cry
I stopped the breath of one who moves
In heaven’s all-seeing eye.

The morning bright, the meadow clear
Our mingled joy in life set fair
Some higher power placed us here
We breathed the same sweet air.

But guns in crooks of arms were cocked
Your heart near burst with fear
You bolted, tacked, I braked, I rocked
God help you, mad March hare.

Now our fates are interlocked
I tracked you at my shoulder
You turned away, for joy I leapt
But flicking back, I shudder.

I feel your weight, I know your beauty
You rode my dented car
I cannot think you less than me
Each knows the morning star.

Thus each man kills the thing he loves
I heard the poet cry
I stopped the breath of one who moves
In heaven's all-seeing eye.