RICHARD THE THIRD
‘Twas the act that withered my arm,
Not the witchcraft of Hasting’s wife;
As Tyrell pushed the Prince’s face
Deep in the down, as his young life
Gave up its strength, so my arm died.
Miles hence, I felt my nephews pain;
I might as well have done the deed
Myself but my alibi must be plain.
Still strong I be, though always too
Round-shouldered; a fearsome figure
In black velvet. I put the fear
Of God and King in their unpure,
Weak and greedy hearts. Two years
I’ve reigned and kicked at rolling heads.
Traitors all; I taught them well.
Imprisoned behind the leads
Of the Tower, they wait and sigh,
Fools to let themselves be caught;
They know my temper. I’d sooner die
Sword in hand than be bought
By another’s promise. I know their worth.
It’s cold for August, here by Bosworth Field.
I could die without issue and be forgot.
Ach! But it is dawn and here is my shield!
SEE EMILY PLAY
The mist is my mind’s mirror,
For though the moor lies hidden
I have filled it with my people,
Filled it with forbidden
Loves and passions. Here, I can
Be all my loves and hates
And all my lives and Hells.
The twisted old trees become the gates
Of a mansion or a damp, lonely church;
The sheep, its congregation.
I sit here quietly till the wild little girl
Screams past me, headed for damnation,
Pursued by someone wilder, more beguiling.
Would love make me run from God smiling?
SEMI-EXPOSED HONEYMOON BRIDGE
There is little to see
And less to believe.
Hidden under three
Dark-glossed azaleas
Is the bridge’s spartan frame,
Showered by camelias.
It is tenuously constructed.
One must tread carefully.
Each step elected,
No matter how delicate,
Could lead to an ear-splitting
Crack as planks disintegrate,
Falling away, lost from sight
In black shallows; no moon, no starlight.
THREE WISHES
It was a cold, cold night
When the girl caught the Fairy,
Stealing the sugar from the bowl;
It’s wings were dancing rainbows in the candlelight
As it sipped upon the nectar in the dairy.
The tiny thing let out an inhuman howl
As the girl’s fingers circled it quite tight.
The little face screwed up with pain
And the wings drooped, limp and dead
And the thickest hush fell fast upon the night.
The creature begged for mercy; the girl frowned in disdain,
Their faces, they had changed from white to red;
“A thief is still a thief” said the girl to her strange charge,
“Now I know why my hard labours bear no fruit;
Now I know how full bowls change to empty dishes.”
Said the Fairy,”I’m so small and you’re so large;
Don’t squeeze. Don’t let your anger be acute
For I have the power to offer you three wishes.”
The girl sat down, still holding on
And gave these words much thought;
In truth, it was a serious matter.
The Fairy, wearied, sagged and leant upon
The hand that gripped her, though it was less taught.
The girl’s eyes watered, her teeth began to chatter.
“If I had caught you months ago,
In freezing , dark December
When dear Mama and Pa still lived and thrived,
I would have much to wish for, so,
Now it is November,
I ask you, can you bring them back alive?”
“Alas, that is beyond me,” the little creature sighed,
“I have magic over things but not o’er souls
But surely you must want for three things more.
There is so much you have not tried,
You are young and must have goals;
I’ll give you a life you surely must adore.”
The girl looked at the Fairy with old eyes;
Her soul had been through much,
Her body on the brink of womanhood.
At seventeen, the world is full of sighs.
She lived alone; there was no-one to touch.
She lived alone, protected by the wood.
“Little creature, bursting with such dazzling power
To change my life, to unearth gold
And crumble mountains into sand;
You can create a diamond shower,
Make a young world old,
Yet you cannot flee the confines of my hand.”
“You doubt me young mistress
As surely you should but allow me to demonstrate;
Simply make your first wish and Behold!
Nothing could be less
Difficult than choosing your own fate.
Everything is in your grasp. Be bold!”
The girl, she thought long and hard;
They discussed what the Fairy could do.
This took many hours until dawn.
All this time, her hand did not discard
The tiny litle thing, though it ached so,
Until at last her plans were drawn.
“Give me a comfortable machine that can travel
Through space and time. That way I can visit
My folks and rescue them from early demise.
Grant me immortality, from this day, youth eternal
And lastly, a very good sense of humour, for I’m sure it
Will be essential in my journeys to new skies.”
And all was done in the blink of an eye;
The Fairy was gone and the cottage was bare.
The sun shone on the stile,
No-one waited to say goodbye
Though the deal was done with care
And far, far away, the girl, she did smile.
UNTITLED
It’s a long way
For convolvulus to climb
But there are many
Convenient little niches
On the way to the top
And enough blossom
To blind each gargoyle.
For a tiny tendril,
Baby-fisted, green and eager,
Each floor of this high building
Stretches, endlessly;
One season, one floor at a time
Is all the struggling
Plant negotiates.
One season up,
One season out.
The ruin benefits aesthetically,
It’s decay enhanced
By flowers as white as honesty.
Near the top of the tower
The spreading green
Wanders up a pale, old dial
Whose numerals still cling
Rigidly;
A clock face
With arms swung low.
No more defining of
The minute or the hour.
It 's great bell,
Long collapsed and fallen,
Rusted and redundant,
Sits passively in the foyer,
Occasionaly giving out
The ghost of a chime
When struck by falling masonry.
WAR CORRESPONDENT
I never go where the women are pretty
And tanned and covered in make-up,
Though I still see powerful men
In smart suits with good haircuts.
The women I meet are ragged
And dirty and sometimes covered in blood,
Selling themselves for a meagre meal;
But there’s always a long lens between us
And their pain is a far-off distant screen
And a fat cheque I never find time to spend.
People demand to know what’s going on in the world,
Which is their right, so I show (but don’t tell).
There’s always another war to go to;
I’m often spoilt for choice.
And as I load up and check I’ve got
My lucky pen, I dream
About my forthcoming book
And exhibition, the opening night,
The champagne, the awards ceremonies;
So much to come back to...
WILD LIFE
We fed the ducks,
Admired the swans,
Followed the waterway
Cut into the land.
We patted a chow pup,
Told moorhens from coots,
And one day you caught
And held a duckling in your hand.
We swapped cat-lore
And garden-bird stories;
You told me of the red squirrel
You saw at the Priory.
We watched a boy gingerly
Fish a dead thing from
The canal, an eel, he said,
At my enquiry.
Long and grey and white,
It dangled from his hook,
A stranger fish in death,
Its eyes opaque and dull.
It smelled dead longer than it looked;
Thrown back, unwanted, a waste,
All five pounds of its weight.
I saw a black-headed gull
Dive and make a catch,
Then fly a ragged circle round the spot.
And the ducks complained in chorus
That they were never full.
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