Today a trilogy of unconnected poems -- perhaps something for everyone. The first relates to the Northumberland coast just north of Bamburgh (click the title link to see more.)
The second is an actual nightmare I had during lockdown earlier this year. 👀
The last is -- entertaining.
The white stag stands
in two dimensions
between land and sea, sea and sky,
air and rock.
Whoever placed him there
'twixt myth and reality,
understood those boundaries
to which we must adhere,
taboos, thresholds
that should not be crossed,
portals to the past that seamless, disappear,
protecting everything the modern world has shed.
But on some moonless night, unseen he turns,
skips lightly through a crevice to that other place,
to dance with myths and legends and return
at first light to the sight of mortal men.
The white stag placed here just beyond our reach
for us to yearn, and learn
the light and darkness
mysteries may teach.
Washing
Washing my hands
Washing my hands in a sink
Washing my hands in a sink full of birds
in a sink full of birds rainbow bright
rainbow bright colours
rainbow bright colours fading
colours fading and dying and the birds
and the birds begin to die
birds begin to die in my hands
my hands covered in faded feathers
hands covered in faded feathers and blood.
Washing hands in a sink of dead birds, faded feathers and blood.
I look in the mirror
Living with Logic
If I hear a thud on the bedroom floor
the creaking of an upstairs’ door
or footsteps on the landing coming close.
When I hear that tread upon the stair
that makes me call out, ‘Who is there?’
if I suspect in short, that it’s a ghost,
I’ll tell no one. I won’t insist
my husband call an exorcist
or that a priest be brought to calm my fears.
His scepticism would enlist
the aid of a psychiatrist
besides
we’ve lived in a bungalow for years.
