On Tenterhooks
- Details
- Written August 2013
Three break-points and a Wimbledon win;
A five-metre scrum for a push-over try;
The cross-bar’s lifted just a bit too high.
Pensive, defensive, expecting a rout;
Heart rate racing and the sweat breaks out;
Walking the tight-rope, stretched to the limit;
Exhilarated ecstasy of the breath-taking minute.
Victory and defeat, pride and despair;
Overcome with exhaustion, just sat on a chair;
Identified in partnership
With winners, and those who’ve lost their grip.
August 2013
Downpour
- Details
- Written August 2013
With the horizon shimmer of a midday mirage
And forecast rumours, just as deceiving
As the sheen of silk in pent-up emotion;
The upper lip trembling, and the hint of a swallow,
With clouds built up in unrelieved tension
Of droplet energy, retained and restrained,
And concealed by the blink of an eyelid.
Until a single drop rolls down the cheek,
The first from overflowing clouds;
Emotions held up in the stratosphere
Wanting to retain the serenity of the skies
Until they reach saturation point, overwhelmed,
And then leak out, almost unseen,
But dabbed away with the gentlest of wipes
To leave the stain of a salt-road trickle.
Still the cyclone rumbles above
Turbulence increasing in heart and mind;
Droplets charged with electro-statics
Until the cloud bursts with thunder and lightning
And convulsive sobs produce a torrent of tears;
Soaked through, but clearing the air
In the dance of early monsoon joys
And clarity of vision, at least for a while.
August 2013
The Mirror
- Details
- Written February 2013
It stands halfway between them –
Observer and observed, wishing he was someone else
Framed in the picture of absolute perfection.
Instead, the self-portrait of another Rembrandt
Outdone; doubled up, reduced in size,
Drifting into the loneliness of distance;
Reversing his words, yet keeping him upright,
While revealing the blemish some might cover
With a touch of make-up to satisfy Narcissus.
But instead the razor scrapes the stubble
Of yesterday’s residue and last night’s growth,
Clearing the lips, the cheeks and chin
To present himself to his better half
For the warm embrace of the morning kiss.
February 2013
Gone with the Wind
- Details
- Written February 2013
Waiting for the next stirring of the muse,
Hands together, pleading for something fresh,
Waiting for the idea, begging for inspiration,
And then the form – just as important, she said.
So who was it decided it had to be fourteen lines
With alternate lines a rhyme and four-four time?
Crescendo, rallantando and tempo rabato
Developing the theme in stanzas equal in length,
To the coda and finale – unforgettably memorable
With tympanic rolls and a clash of cymbals.
Only to find it was the dust-bin lid
Rolling round the close with scraps of paper
Lifted by the wind – a poem in the making lost
As he goes to clear up the scattered litter.
February 2013
The Battle-Field
- Details
- Written November 2012
Enduring the horrors of war
In the stench of the trenches –
Stale sweat and encrusted blood
With squelched excrement
Floating into the air
Already heavy with cordite.
Conscripts establishing peace with justice
In a glad new world
For one-time enemies to live as neighbours
In a shared humanity,
Serving and being served,
Mining and making, buying and selling,
Praying and playing on another field.
Wheat milled and spice ground,
Until baked bread aroma fills the house,
And there’s a knock at the door
(Not to announce a battle-field death)
So we invite them in for coffee
On no-man’s land
That’s every man’s land.
Remembrance Sunday,
11 November 2012
Photo: Captain Harry Andrews VC, a Salvation Army officer-doctor, who died in action in Waziristan, October, 1919.