Inspired by Owen Sheers’ book Calon: A Journey to the Heart of Welsh Rugby
this carmine closed fist
caged in bleached-bone
strong, pear-like pump
and yet succumbs
to the quick tear
the soft bruise
the bladed scrape
patched and pinned
to an aching chest
of arrhythmic pulse
steadying once more
not yet mine
nor I yours.
beneath vaulted ache.
in stained glass
Tined forks taunt me from the drawer
as I scan spaces while scrambling eggs.
I cast aside papers full of yesterday’s events,
preferring instead to float between lines
The black dog settles in her basket,
lulled by the scent of windowsill narcissi
wafting in on Eostre’s breath.
Though we no longer speak in spoons,
let us, just for today, sheathe our knives,
untangle our tongues and sit quietly together,
enjoying our eggs.
~ Eostre is the Celtic goddess of rebirth, new beginnings and fertility and is seen as Spring personified.
Blithe metronomic music box,
soft strains propelled by pulse beneath,
spring-driven motor rotates teeth,
steel pin-encrypted comb unlocks.
In time the rime-encrusted chimes
scrape, grate and grind the cogent cogs;
stalled core harmonic slips its sheath,
its metronomic music boxed.
Filed under Octain, Poetry
So many fallen before us;
battle fatigued and ill-equipped
to face the enemy,
yet still we rise to fight,
after a sleepless night weighed down
by the mud and the shit and the stench of death
to eke out what is left of our meagre rations,
for tomorrow we march on empty stomachs.