Thursday, February 1, 2018




Petulant sun quarrels with crabbed sky
It probes, prods, sneaks
Through gaps in broken cloud,
Catches the crests of waves that roll
In deep swells across the estuary.
Gales lash the craggy headland
Pummel long-stemmed grass into submission;
Rain shards pierce weathered faces
And wrens search out the whin’s snug core.
It is midsummer’s day and Nature rages:
Brother Man, row back, row back,
Our world is not, is not, yours to destroy.


A solemn gathering -  the earnest poets,
philosophers and theologians versed
in weft of word and erudite discourse,
the rudiments of life and death obsessed;
pet theories threshed, pet propositions flashed,
fresh theses so politely sent to bed,
old certainties dispatched with such panache.
And yet, was aught of import  really said?
The more that we are shown, the less we see,
nothing within our ken is absolute,
reason is but licence to disagree -
gut man has known for long his utmost truth:
just like the ass, the ape, the stupid fly,
survive to sally forth and multiply.


Day of the Wren.
I pick a hart’s- tongue fern
On its leaf are hieroglyphs
Dark brown gnarls that bear
A message more ancient
Than script or scripture
Than language or dialect
Than ogham or rune.
It was etched before
Stone-age drawings
Before Torah or Thoth
Before religion or writing
Before Greece or Rome
Before philosophy
Before theology.
Before Adam.
It tells of
Survival, of renewal
Of harmony, of balance
Of beauty, of tolerance.
Writ by nature,
It asks
When will man
Learn to read?


1 comment :

  1. I really enjoyed reading these three poems. Thank you for sharing