Oh you have to look;
you always have to look,
to raise your eyes from a haze,
from glaze of days dripping by.
Eyes transfix the true and pin it to the real,
like pinning Catherine to the wheel -
I have to laugh in picking up
a blackened tube of firework
from the smeared wet.
Disparity this mystery,
that one birch hardly shows a streak of yellow yet
another hanging metal for the last and sparse display
price-tags to come, one feels, to turn the eyes away.
In big town tubs and raised brick plots
the winter flowers surround
the palms and shiver there.
Town pigeons are wilfully edgy:
in tribute to dim instinct,
they've flocked up factitiously
and fly at the trigger of my stare -
away round Santander,
and, whoo, back overhead -
but I'm still here to jinx them.
The unflocked ones are tripping me up,
as I type my notes in an open mall courtyard.
'Macouti': the shop with the big bath-bombs
is speaking out of turn again in memory.
The hawthorn, oh the hawthorn
is full of blood-red berries.
YOU ARE READING
Under The Wings
Poetry.Under the Wings of the Egyptian and world-wide respected Goddess, Isis. Poems of Nature, Inner Resonance and Mythology.
