PHILIP
DODD
A BEWILDERMENT OF
DOVES
On my closed eye
lid screen I see
a bewilderment of
doves.
Once caught in
cloud cages, wind wires,
from barn loft,
orchard wall,
they flutter free.
To doors on the
horizon,
they carry a key.
I can only be a
witness,
watch them go,
further and
further
away from me.
Human as I am I
will never know
the lift through
the air
on such white
feathered wings.
HARBOUR MASTER
Harbour master,
keep awake,
do not sleep
through the storm.
Reports of wrecks
on the rocks
should never be.
Send out light
ships
to guide all
sailors home.
Lighthouse
keepers,
cleanse your lamps
clear.
Dark waves rise,
souls fear to
drown at sea.
Remember the
mariner
who slew the
albatross.
After the deed, an
icy ache
he felt inside his
hollow trunk,
his punishment for
the loss.
Winter night on
the shore,
no light from moon
or star.
Harbour master,
study your charts,
to tell all
sailors what to do,
reveal to them
where they are.
Some are so far
out at sea,
though they may
dream
of a harbour below
a cliff,
they let it go by,
as a hope of
anchor,
naught but a
mariner myth.
MARCH HARE
Wish I were a
March hare,
out there on the
moor,
sniffing spring in
the air,
after the winter
thaw.
My brain would be
alert,
my ears would
quiver.
From danger I
would spurt,
run down to the
river.
I'd listen to the
birds,
piping in the
grass,
while white clouds
roam in herds,
not caring they
will pass.
I'd leap through
fields of sheep,
free of fox and
hawk,
see old mole wake
from sleep,
where humans never
walk.
My ears and hind
legs long,
my nose keen to
scent,
the wild where I
belong,
there I would make
my dent.
Though I'm not a
March hare,
out there on the
moor,
I still breathe
the spring air,
after the winter
thaw.
PHILIP DODD
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