My handwriting has not always been
the microscopic scribble I create today.
At eight, learning joined-up writing
my steel nib stabbed unasked through the page.
I blotted the monitor's inkwell spills
navy circles spreading on spongy pink.
Stretched on that rock amidst olive trees
in abject fear blood breaks through your skin.
Startled at your traitor's kiss
you go to carry the curse of our sin.
While people are still safe and warm in bed
birds perching on their nests, balancing
on the topmost branches and on electric wires
call out gladly to each other, 'Prepare.'
Today we celebrate with joy
the birthday of a baby boy.
We know him from His work as man
fulfilling God's eternal plan.
His forbears were a line of kings
so He would do majestic things.
Swildon's Hole our favourite cave.
We don wet suits,
boots and helmets;
strap on NIFE cells and headlamps
ready for adventure.
Yesterday I heard a conversation
between a father and son; here's my narration:
Ignore that monstrous, ragged cloud -
a hairy fist shading the brightness;
waging war on the dropping December sun;
We watch waves washing the edge of the bay
rise and dip, twinkle and surge, spew and curl
dancing tirelessly all night and all day.
No horses No motor-cycles No model aeroplanes
No dogs No bows crossbows guns No ball games
No music No bathing No mobile phones
No playing skipping laughing frowning kissing
No questioning No lying No believing No feeling
No joy
You search here
you search there
not finding what you are seeking.
Your desire is strong,
your need unmistakeable.
You'd pay any price;
why are they so elusive?
Walking through Frith woods
crunching through scattered dead leaves,
a sudden whisper in the rusty blanket
and there he is, the colour of it,
his triangular face pointing at me.
I stop, a boot poised to step, and look.
A silent bridge is flung between our eyes.