The Smile on the Face of the Fox

I strode the length of Cobbler’s lane,
Over Flashers Field I crossed,
Lush green gave way to rust and ash
From Ironworks sadly lost.
I scaled the grey embankment there,
My way a metalled rage
Of drams enmeshed in twisted rail,
Ditched by a long gone age.


Arriving at the arid ridge
I sensed an acrid smell,
A fox had climbed the other side,
We froze, both in a spell.
As close apart we calmly stood
With glistening eyes of gold,
He deeply searched my fragile soul
For mercy to behold?


I raised my gun, but took no aim,
He was, by far, too near,
He dropped his head, but stood his ground
And showed no sign of fear.
I could not kill that noble beast
And that he knew so well,
It was he who was in full control
As he sauntered down the dell.


Later as I tilled the dell
I saw him waiting there,
Reclining at the place we met-
Not a grave, I’d no cross to bear,
I leapt down from my iron steed
And climbed the ashen hill,
But making no attempt to move,
He tried my strength of will.
As I took his dare and moved on him,
His face curved in a smile,
As if to say farewell my friend,
Then loped down Lover’s mile.


That evening, late, I checked the yard,
I could not hear a sound,
Then I saw my twelve white hens
All Strewn about the ground.
Mangled guts and severed heads
Lay in a slime of blood,
Feathers floating in moonlight,
Phosphorescent in the mud.
Then I saw him standing there,
Grim form against the moon,
That raised its head, howled high to heaven
A deathly dirge. …... A terrifying tune.


Next day I cleared the sorry waste,
And closed the silent run,
I pondered why a man or beast
Considered murder so much fun.
With heavy heart I turned away,
And looked towards the gate,
There, to my surprise, he’d come to gloat
Or, maybe, my anger to inflate.
I raised the gun but aimed above
The cruel destructive brute
He stood still awhile….. then flashed a smile
Our bond betrayed …..its end….. absolute.

Al Queda, the Insensitive, inhouse,resident Cat

Then there was Al Queda
The insensitive, in-house, resident cat
Who, chased by a dog at least two feet tall,
Found itself vertically spread-eagled
On a rug mat suspended in Polly’s front hall.
Oh why did he take that treacherous trail
With such unwavering pace?
And why did he chance his fragile paw
To confront the brute-whisker to hairy face?
These were the thoughts of the delectable Poll
As she daintily tripped through the length of her hall
And who, with shock and surprise, was heard to cry,
“Al Queda! Get down!. Get down from that bloody wall!
Singularly scared to his sensitive core,
Al Queda, felt that it was time to go,
So with the consummate skills of a circus artiste,
He landed on the back of the waiting beast.
With claws dug deep in the sad creature’s hide
The dog, the cat, set off on a hell bound ride.

The Pre-emptive Blackbird

Blackbird flew out of the sun,
Small boy corked his plastic gun,
Blackbird taking aim from high
Blithely shat in small boy’s eye.

At early dawn the chorus sang
To praise him for a job well done

The Green Fuse Blown

Arrayed in springtime apparel,
Blackbird, confused and constrained,
Struts his waking nightmare through
A season of mellow fruitlessness.


Robin sporting his prim waistcoat,
Signals red to cry
In confused ferocity,
“Stop! Enter not this territory.”


The tiny crocus in modesty
Dances with chill breezes to bloom
Alongside nature’s seasonal error,
The inconsequential Nerine.


Alas. Green nature can but stand aside and groan,
For Dylan’s green fuse has sadly blown

Melodious Robin

Never still seldom at rest,
Eye aglitter cold as ice,
Melodious robin, welcoming guest.

Boisterous bird, bright red of breast,
Miming songs, gentle and precise,
Never still seldom at rest.

Men with you toil, but don’t molest,
You a tenant of paradise,
Melodious robin, welcoming guest.

Fluted notes, fluent, trilled with zest,
Perfected musical device,
Never still seldom at rest.

Beneath that throbbing chest
A heart of steel, powerful vice,
Melodious robin, welcoming guest.

Was it on the cross that Jesus blest
You with his blood of sacrifice?
Never still seldom at rest,
Melodious robin, welcoming guest.

One for Sorrow (The Misfortunate Magpie)

Chattering, checkering, hideous din,
One fretful magpie, acrobatic on wing,
Hard out of hell, arch devil at dawn
Relentlessly made claim to my innocent lawn.
From that moment on there was no peace or rest,
No creature safe on ground or nest,
‘til splat, entrails arranged on the welcoming mat,
Was cock magpie killed by al Qaida,
The insensitive, in-residence, terrorist cat?


All the birds of the air
Danced and jigged when they heard
Of the timely death of the meddling bird,
The welcoming death of the tiresome bird.


Then high in the elm was clearly heard.
The imperious song of a wise old bird,
”That mire on the mat you plainly see
Could well have been you or even me!”

And this promptly closed the bird-brained spree.

The Hesitant Blackbird

February, belated winter,
Season in its own right. Witness
To grey days widening. It listens
To the blackbird trying to kindle
Frozen minds with song, sweet but faltering
That fails to crack the ice of silence.


In modesty, it dares not
To disturb late winters demise.


March, bold controller of the sky,
Permeates spreading mists. It enlightens
Sturdy elms in limpid fields.
Starved land sucks up the latent heat,
And emerald energy engulfs the meadow
As nature fires a forgotten fuse.

The earth breathes. It is alive again.

In innocence, with silvery voice,
The blackbird sings with scintillating fluency.

Garden Splendour

Overwhelmed by things that ring a ding a ling,
The garden next door is not a many splendoured thing,
For lurking there are creatures, large and small,
That, stunned by chimes fixed upon the garden wall
Gaze at spinning toys on which birds innocently ride,
While below, bold floral groups form fours with military pride.
In shaded corners stony elves stand still, and stare
With eyes dead that do not see the nightlight’s baleful glare.
Do not despair, for beyond the great divide
Lies a land where elements of good taste reside,
There, nature’s fuse desperate to stay alive,
Destroys the weak and encourages the strong to survive,
It is there that rampant rabbits dismantle seedbeds and lawn,
And where nettles, and ants upon the wing
Are acidly charged, and readily poised to sting.

It is all there in my garden,
That is a many splendoured thing.

Serpentine Illusion

Raw heat consumes the meadow,
And Eden’s green door beckons.
The staff of life, a swan-like contortion,
Charged by the energy of Caduceus
Makes Claim to Ynys Ddu’s green edges
Along burning banks sleep
Seven, wide-awake, serpents,
Their sockets empty in blind, as night, eyes.


From within the sweat of primeval ooze,
Unsettling the silence of stifling heat.
I hear the earth’s muffled breathing,
While beneath gesticulating trees
Death’s icy prescience seems to rasp,
“Giraldus! You are immortal.”
Aghast, my desolate body dissolves
In an frenzied flow of madness,
It craves its own serpentine illusion
To challenge the wisdom of Caduceus


I disregard flickering warnings,
And pass through viperous banks,
Where mystical elements besiege,
And discordantly shriek:
Giraldus “You are mortal. Go back”
But fear that flows through frozen arteries
Makes me fearless.


Silently, secret banks unfurl their drama
Serpents lift cold tactile heads,
And my, pale as rose water, blood
Bubbles and sears through tangled veins.
As foolish as a skulking Achilles,
I leave the kaleidoscope of death
To a foul mouthed virago,
Who celebrating my inglorious defeat,
Shrieks with a coarseness that offends,
“ Go back! Giraldus.
The will of Caduceus will be done!”
Alone, with my sad delusion
I depart in shame.


“Giraldus! You are mortal. Go back!”

Oscar the Aristocat

Oscar the Aristocat,
Oscar the black and white cat,
Aloof but unpretentious
By nature unadventurous,
That’s Oscar the black and white cat.

Oscar the circumspect cat,
Oscar the black and white cat,
Never prone to take violence,
Ever addicted to silence
Is Oscar the black and white cat.

Oscar the mischievous cat,
Oscar what on earth is he at
At his age should he be able
To scale the heights of a table?
But is, in spite of all that,
Oscar the excusable cat.

Oscar the unassailable aristocat.

Pretty Polly

Enter a clown with a parrot on his ear,
“Pretty Polly! Pretty Polly! Are we all here?”
The smoke room is muggy and Mac in despair
Splutters and chokes in the poison laden air,
Is not the war over and the battle yet won?
Play your pipes, hurl hate at the heavens, run bloody run.


Pull down the sky and cover your head,
Scream again “Pretty Polly” but only at the dead,
Surreptitious ladies, ready for the night
Dream of salamanders with chameleons in white;
Is the war over and can we have fun?
Pull your punch, drain dry your glass, run bloody run.



Exit a clown without parrot on his ear,
Poor Polly! Poor Polly! Were you ever here?
While in the corner the lounge clock is striving
To ask if the life that you have is really worth living;
The war is not over; shake your fist at the sun,
Stand still alone, harden your heart, run bloody run.

Seasons

Early winter hurts the landscape,
Wrecking summers hard won gain,
While slyly, with its freezing fire,
Bleak hoarfrost spreads its deadly pain.


Patient spring makes good the damage,
Cleaning up the mess that’s left below,
Then awakes with subtle breezes
Cold sterile earth beneath the snow.


Radiant autumn in its glory,
Reviving summers faded scenes,
Scatters rust, rich, warm and golden,
To repair the summer’s jaded greens.

Keep the Home Fires Burning

Determined to deny the land
Of one of its favoured appeals,
The impetus that strives
To ease it smoothly along
As on well-oiled wheels,
And caring not for survival,
The deceitful disease,
Clothed in shameful pretence,
Settles in all stations of purity
To rattle Mother Nature,
And destroy her hard won security.


For the foul will displace the fair
When managers of assiduous ambition,
Swollen as they are with ignorance who,
Not knowing what they do
Gnaw into central controls.
Disorder signals, destroy discernment
Pause but briefly, then ignore
The sickly stench of burning flesh, A stink
Coating all with death’s black uniform
Distilled from the coal and fatty mass,
And spread far by its rampaging firestorm.



To those wolves in sheep's clothing,
Deprived of good sense,
Impart a clear message that tells them
It is the smell alone that is truth's essence.


.

Leda and the Swan

Olympia’s false swan is intent.
His lascivious

Frame bears a blaze of anticipation.
His fall from heavenly heights

Takes him earthbound to Leda’s side.
She stiffens

As the night air bleeds
Beneath his feathery beating.

Her nakedness seems to sigh
With a shiver of exhaustion.

He enfolds, then absorbs her
In the privacy of his avian alcove,

And she, resisting no longer, submits
To fulfil the illusion of a mythical decree.

Innocence of the Lamb

Walking in whiteness through the dawn
I came upon a sorry sight,
It stained harsh winter’s silent coat,
A mire of red on white.
Galvanised by whirling winds
It danced with little joy,
Tossed and teased by spiteful flakes,
Then discarded, a broken toy.
Agnus Dei? I can but justly say
That the innocence of this lamb,
Slain but not triumphant,
Is but part of nature’s cruel plan,

Not a sacrificial offering by man.

Barney

Dissenting,
Resenting,
Rarely repenting,
Barney the bane of her life.

Terrific,
Horrific,
Seldom specific,
Wits as sharp as a knife.

He mumbling,
And stumbling,
She always grumbling,
Whenever he started a fight.

His munching
When lunching
In next doors dustbin
With manners akin to a brat,
Fairly jolted her;
Even revolted he;,
So she swapped him for next-door’s cat.


And that was that the end of that!

Buttercup Discontented

buttercup
missnamed friesian
discontented

watcyn price
Ill-famed farmer
unrepented

buttercup
inflamed friesian
much demented

hoofed him
brained him

watcyn price
bloodstained farmer
late lamented

The Parasitical Wasp

Last night I ran into a Moth,
I gave it such a smack.
It traced, poor thing, a somersault
To crash land on its back,
Then I saw to my surprise,
Close clinging to its wing,
A parasitic wasp, no less,
Poised in readiness to sting.



I stooped down low to gently part
The host from parasite,
And with a twig I swished that wasp
To dent its appetite.
The creatures parted company,
The moth it calmly rose,
The wasp itself was not impressed
And stung me on the nose.

Song of the Cynical Gardener

A garden is a loathsome thing,
Full of weeds and things that sting,
Where miniature monsters creep around,
And evil smelling ponds abound.
Tiresome blackbirds tittle-tattle,
In straggling bushes warblers prattle.
The sun shines bright and sears the skin
Sly dawn breaks with hellish din.
For peace of mind I’d cover my plot
With brick and block-the whole dammed lot!


Or, on reflection, maybe not.