Timber Sycamore


Oh tree Oh tree
how can you be where water doesn’t flow?

how spread the spores of conflict
from seed not nature sown?

Yet here you stand so wieldy
rootless in the sand

a pollinated theory
blown far across the land

(Initially I wasn’t going to add the link, but often subtlety will get you nowhere)

© Wolfgar 2018

The Skeleton Tree


Leafy letters drifted free
released from the claws of a Skeleton tree

on golden pathways they wrote your name
which blew away when Winter came

and now the seasons turn again
I shall not walk that well trod lane

or fix my thoughts on what could be
If I found what fell from the Skeleton tree

© Wolfgar 2018

Last light


Along the hedge row Surrey lane
a last light shimmers by moonlights wane,
as bar staff stack the chairs again
he walks the road by which he came.

Can’t hear the sea this far inland
or recall the feel of hand in hand,
though in his ears still sounds the band 
his mouth turned dry with blackened sand.

He shuns the lies of suited men
hunched by stones in London rain, 
who meekly say with fingers crossed
We really do regret your loss.

The lonely house stands guard alone
for this old soul returning Home,
to sit it out just one more night
and pray for dawns relieving light.

© Wolfgar 2018

The Virtue Signallers


They are but da Vinci coded Roman Statues
pointing the way to final solutions,
more obvious than a turd in a swimming pool.
Dogs piss on them, drunks puke on them
whilst they remain aloof.

Then back from the front the actors come
with their moral compass spinning.
Welcomed by the virtuous bystanders,
those poets of peace who change the world?
and take credit for thinking they think.

We need active players
not Ikea desked and pyjama’d clones,
Latte quaffers and subscribers to literary rags.
By all means point and pontificate, but save your piety
and never steal what others win.

© Wolfgar 2018

To the Mistress of the Sea


Within the harbour wall the sea is black as oil
it licks the little fishing boats
it glides along the granite stone
where silver fish scales twinkle the moon

The steps as slick as frying pans
descend through water cold as graves
yet none of those lost fisher men
can place one foot upon another

That they departed once from here
in boats of wood from forests full
to trawl a scape unknown to them
its voids as empty as their souls

Nets outcast in open water
beneath them only inner space
the shore too far to run for home
between the dark and the days safe haven

Yet still they venture into night
that they may crave the mornings light
the call of gulls when nearer home
the white peaks of the tidal foam

The Sea does beg without a name
to those who feel unbound to home
it welcomes all for all are same
and all embraced though all unknown

© Wolfgar 2018