Uncertain Weather

The weather is uncertain, as are we: is it

Spring, Summer, Winter?

Snow flurries one moment, then

blossom pretending to be snow,

shredded by a dread

east wind, which then blows

shrill sun and

gusts of small birds.

Forest

I’m with Dante, lost, with

each tree telling a story but

only the forest knowing the truth.

The Penny Bridge, West Float, Birkenhead

Fridayam's Blog

The road ran steeply down to the
sluggish water that waited
for a ship: as I did,
but the ship was patient.
I was pushing 5 with all my might
and seeing a boat rounding the float I ran,
as I ran everywhere, pell-mell,
heedless of my Mother’s shouts.
Only the sight of my Father stopped me,
waving, all black and gold buttons,
from the hut by the bridge
that was my toy today.
Squat and lopsided, it
hulked above me:
a latticed beetle, snug in its husk,
expectant.
The ship was imminent and I was
lifted up to grab the lever,
so big in my tiny hands, so
small to move so much metal.

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A Daily Crisis

The weather mocks our crisis,

as do the Great Tits

mobbing the bushes,

robin and blackbird trying to

protect their fought-over land with

sharp beaks and claws, hoping

having won their song will let them

pull, fuck and propagate, while

magpies watching may

raid their nests and eat their

eggs but still themselves have to

raise uncertain broods, like the

sparrows and starlings

hiding under our eaves, uncertain

except in numbers, sharing the

daily crisis that goes on

under our forgetful noses.

Stubbornness

A good thought today perhaps? The wisdom of cats 😉

Fridayam's Blog

Our old house was finally empty except

for our cat who hid and

my muse who kept him company

amidst the dustballs and the bits of lost toys,

the ghostly jamboree and the silence

in which they sat blinded

by moonbeams through

uncurtained windows and

deaf to entreaties to return.

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Survival

I guess I should thank

whichever ancestor it was who

survived the Black Death to

produce a line that

somehow got through many

bloody medieval battles,

sneaked past the

musters and mayhem of the

French wars, coughed but

continued copulating through

Industrial Revolution,

two World Wars, the

Spanish ‘Flu, the

Cold War, AIDS, but yet

squirted me out to

propagate and end up

lectured on living by my

children.

Loving Hands

With all the washing

our hands are

dry and chapped and we

chafe as we try to

rub along as

loving hands are

meant to.

Horatio, Abridged

“Hamlet” makes one think so much of all the characters….

Fridayam's Blog

I am the dull one, the

boring friend, overlooked

bearer of bad news, repository of

sickening confidences,

soaker-up of blood, testator,

greeter of invaders,

teller of tales at their tables,

my place getting farther and

farther away until I can

barely see the crown I once

nearly touched, a relic

embalmed in aspic,

forever denied felicity.

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