Snowdrop

After the winter’s plague
Has visited every home;
Where the long night
Has seemed like a grave.

From the ice and dirt and stone
Of people’s failure
A snowdrop appears.

He didn’t think twice about it;
He was hardly able to acknowledge it;
Then he was illuminated.

The whole earth
Had seemed dead
For a long time –

Then the snowdrop appeared.

Nature always bounces back

Nature’s bubbles in a stream
You pop one, it becomes a pack
This be real, it’s not a dream
Nature always bounces back

You gash the earth with railway wroth
On green belt land, you place your stack
I’ve seen myself, the green regrowth
Nature always bounces back

The forest grown to many a mile
Are flattened by the tractor track
A million seeds will target oil
Nature always bounces back

Mankind crawls across the turf
With little machines, they make a scratch
On the green giant of the earth
But nature always bounces back

Now listen to the battle cries
As man begins his final crack
At ocean tide and mountain fire
As nature always bounces back

You chuck the earth into a bin
You lay a road you hope will last
But like the blemish on your kin
Nature heals and bounces back

Then in parliament they motion
Save the planet, then have a snack
But save yourself, there is no lotion
For nature always bounces back

Poem for heaven

Out of the grass came trees
Out of the trees came birds
Out of the birds came a heaven
Out of heaven came the word

The grass grew tall before the days of wheat
The trees grew tall before the flying bird
Heaven grew wide before the word
And words spread abroad and were heard

Who made the grass grow tall?
Who made the trees with His Call?
Who made the birds for the world?
Who made heaven with His Word?

The freedom of our kind

Isn’t life today
All slavery

What?
What kind of
What kind of slavery?

The slavery of worms
That slave on the soil
Blindly toiling away
Making the soil nice
For the roots

What is their reward?
What do they get in return?

They eat dirt
And are satisfied
But they are freer
Than human beings
That climb a mountain of rules
That run around a circuit of rules
Rules like
Sign here
Sign there
Fill in this
Fill in that
Is there such a thing
As bureaucracy for worms
No, they
Go this way
They go that way
They sleep when they want
They eat when they want
There’s no division of time for them
They work because they want to
They work because they enjoy it

There’s no interfaces
Like banks
Or governments
To get them following
A routine
That would give
Only rudimentary value
To the freedom of their kind

The freedom
Of our kind
I wonder if humanity
Will ever have
The freedom of our kind
Where we would fit in
Harmoniously
With God’s creation
With the earth
Like the simple worm
Does

Where is
The freedom of our kind

I’m sure it’s out there
Somewhere
Waiting
To be discovered

Or maybe
It’s within us
Maybe it’s in the voice
Of our souls

The old cat is sleeping

The old cat is sleeping on the garden chest
The suns not so bad for autumn
The honeysuckle has climbed onto the dog rose branch
The cat sleeps with one eye open

The maple leaves shake in a slight breeze
A tiny fly drifts by the window
The flowerpots are stacked high
The sunflower heads are sleepy

Bluebells

Delicate, beaming mysterious signals
Thumbing it’s nose up at the world
Bluebells

Bluebells, imitate sleeping
Guardians in the forest, colour ringing light
Insects reach out and pull the ropes
Deafened by the chimes, scamper away.

Bluebells, hiding under bushes
Imitating the slumber of creatures
Leaves, a corolla of shredded paper
Peaceful, undisturbed, lazy
Revelling in their hide and seek experience.

Bluebells, playing jokes, insisting
That they are not bluebells
Easily deluded, you begin to wonder
“What are Bluebells?” as you walk away
Then there’s merriment, there’s giggling
Like the sound of falling rain

Beneath the meadow

Beneath the meadow
Was a jewel
Locked in rock
It caused a fool
To turn the meadow
Upside down
Until the jewel
He had found
Then he went
And from his face
Locked his jewellery
Into a safe
And the meadow?
It saw no more
The summer sun
The flowered floor
But it remained
Like a breast torn
Its’ heart gone
Its’ flowers unborn

I Remember the Stringy Roots

I remember the stringy roots, they spread beneath the soil, I dig them up. I remember your grey hair, almost bald, how yellow you look. I unearthed a deep orange chrysalis and buried it again. While roots so white; a living sexual white, whiter than the white of the moon and the earth; so dark, so damp from yesterday’s rain.
And the honeysuckle of your faces as you complained about the talent contest. And the numerous bulbs of the bluebell that popped up like buoys, the earth dust that wanted to touch the moon, how depressed I felt digging through the detritus of life, the broken down green cells, the eyeballs of prehistoric man, the meteorites, the demolished houses that stood here before the war.
Always you must offer me food, I want more than food; I want to be human I am still only a thing unearthed by your garden fork, at midnight, under a full moon. Your wrinkles here begin to grow; they are a creeping plant growing abundantly against the side of the garden wall. I cut them back, but they continue to spread. A green caterpillar squirming, in the clumps of earth, no bigger than a nail clipping.
The mysterious cats are back, you say, the fox has gone, equally mysteriously. When you go into the garden you are mobbed by a single raven. I find a wooden cross underneath the rosebush. I pull the green scalps of grass out of the earth and fork it over. The sweat is pouring off me into the earth. Next door a woman in a bikini reclining upon a sun bed makes fun of her boyfriend. There is a dream like quality in the earth as I dig it, I fall into a trance, a spell. Now I ask how many such earth’s are there, and how many such gardens does humanity have to dig.

1999

The contours of the mind

The contours of the mind
Are rainbow bridges
The feet of the rainbows
Hover above the land
The light in the afternoon
Delineate the dark rain clouds
With the contours of the mind

All the little animals are crying
What are they crying for?
Could it be that the summer is ending?
And they don’t want it to go
A woman wanders into their homes
To reassure them
Then they go to sleep contented

My trainer

My trainer tried to make me
Jump through a hoop
Reluctantly I complied
He thought it quite a scoop

My trainer tried to make me
Stand upright on my paws
And sing from musicals
And open secret doors

My trainer tried to make me
Walk upon high wire with a cone of fire
On my head

My trainer tried to make me
Ride standing on a horse
As we galloped round the course
With explosive force

My trainer tried to make me
Do all of this and more
But I grabbed him in my claw
And bit his head off