Stewards

The hedgerows fall like weeds
to a constant eye,
pulling the unwanted to
make room for a vision
that will kill us all,

there where the grasses
hold the secrets of the world,
old bones and the ripening of life
flogged for no other reason than we can,

and the children know this somehow,
put away the blades and your dominion
and go to the edge of the fields
and plant your heart in the green light

Just a Gull

I've seen this one thing that children do
At the verge of a school ground
where a road curves and buses sway

I've seen this one thing that children do

Tossing crusts of bread to gulls
Tossing crusts of bread onto the road
where buses sway

I've seen this and did nothing
Passing by like a coward before such
children who made a game of life and death

I've seen this and did nothing

Walking by with my head down
Walking by with a prayer for children
who have made a game of life and death

And then the pop of a game fulfilled
A death to answer unwitting ends
The children crouched in mute surprise
to stroke the breast and bloodied beak

One girl cried and a little boy gawped
Another shrugged and said, just a gull

And I did nothing and crossed
the road where buses sway

The Silent Coming of Beauty

Desolation, emptiness
and the soft lull of the world
falling like snow

A moment later the drift of hope
finds me along that old track
where a fox squatted
unknown, unseen

And now I know
who was watching me

because we are never

alone

Just the other day
my mother dropped in,
a flash of light in my peripheral eye
telling me that my footsteps
will fall where they should

and every word will catch

a breeze and move on to

the new mouths waiting to drink

the perfect notes

The River

The river is calm today
like a grey skin of ice,
slickened to catch the fallen sky
and as still as a serpentine lake
A lull, a holding breath,
life to tugs and gulls and watchers
from every River Road

Yet, yesterday it writhed
and churned to milk,
smashed against all that touched
the fitul water's pulse,
heaved and roared
and hungry for the sea
The same waters gathering
a thousand streams forever,
all moods and seasons

But below its smirk and guile
the enduring drift rests
in unfathomable stillness,
like the space between thoughts
of the beginner's mind
where rivers and souls do meet

Let Us All Wear Tartan

I long for a new world,
the end of shredded bodies
and mothers collapsed and weeping
in rubbled streets

There where ancient soil blackens
with new blood and men under
the influence of fear waste brothers
for reasons unknown to me

And I despair for the moribund child
too weak to brush the flies from his eyes,
the child already dead
as I watch from my couch

The excessive patterns of nightly news
tell me something is wrong,
brutality across the oceans,
across town and in our homes

Fox-jawed tufts of five day beard
and I am madly spiraling toward
the corruption of smoking guns,
the fulfillment of myopic devotees

Let us all wear tartan
and sling the scraps of cloth
across our backs, vie for the paling horizon
where lavender returns from the darkening

Toss the old order like stones
and hold aloft the torch of mystery
Illumine the cavern of snarling faces,
take their hands and never look back

Trust in something you cannot see,
there where the infants rest
Forgive everyone and begin again,
throw away everything you've ever learned

Dreams of a Boy

The dry hills
stick in your throat
and the grass beats rhythms
of snakes at your feet

Always there is the eye
that wanders beyond
the pine ridges that hem you in,
that stole your heart as a boy

Romantic construction
builds rainbows and visions,
lays waste what your heart
was telling you all along

Find your place in the world,
stay a while and drink
from the many streams

The Pool

What is moving, the breeze
or the briny waters?

Ripples of mercury run herring-bone
to the sea, wavelets on the move
like cliff-bound lemmings
fated to die, pools abandoned
by the tide and left behind crabs
Sole the size of your thumb
dash from wading children
who peer delighted and ankle-safe
holding their bright red pails
The drone of planes seem lazy,
the cry of gulls a comfort,
the smell of salt nostalgic

Wistful mothers watch
from blankets and wonder
if it was ever fun for them