England now is stretched too thin

twixt

Birdsong and where throng begin

 

The thicket and the wooded edge

retreat

as does the honoured pledge

 

Now where two worlds existed clear

jaded

shades of life appear

 

Diminished of their rich appeal

devoured

by destructive zeal

 

Each precious field each sacred stone

buried

like a flesh stripped bone

 

And though it’s true all things will fade

observance

of what’s passed be paid

 

That should these landscapes disappear

our silenced

voices still they’ll hear

 

I write this scrawl in the knowledge that the UK has a housing problem and that people require places to live. In all things there must be balance, that said I have little time for NIMBY’s.

 

Women, Children, Ice cream, Balloons,

excitement, enticement, sonic booms…

 

Shattered Streets limb festooned,

righteous entitlement, lives marooned.

 

SSAFA, Poppies, Medals, Flags,

Hot Dogs, Slushies, Corporate bags…

 

Red Cross, Crescent, ID Tags,

No Parent Present, Body Bags.

 

Smiles, Cheering, Pride and Joy,

Roaring Engines, Replica Toy…

 

Crying, Screaming, Girl and Boy,

Crumbled Ruins, Lives Destroyed.

 

Contracts Signed, Agreements Made,

Champagne Taken, Anthems Played…

 

Pits Deep Dug, a Grim Parade,

No Graveside Hug no Love Displayed.

 

Airshow, No-Show, Mass Murder Sale,

Our Bloody hands Beyond the Pale…

 

Bombed out Cities, Dollar Shrines,

The Mausoleum’s of our time.

 

https://videopress.com/v/1a2196wv?resizeToParent=true&cover=true&preloadContent=metadata&useAverageColor=true

 

All along the railed paths from Regents Park to Notting Hill,

we feel the gaze of those long passed whose sightless eyes are on us

Still.

 

Through the Parks of Royal note St James up to Marble Arch,

we tread the lawns as lowly folk and take our pause as Soldiers

March. 

 

Beneath broad streets unpaved of gold from Camden Town to Bethnal Green,

we transit on an iron road laid down by toil that went

Unseen.   

 

By Highways, Byways, Cart or foot beneath the tunnelled turf and sky,

there is no step was ever put that fell assured nor questioned

Why.    

 

Caterpillar on a stone beach wall

its concertinaed wavy crawl,

did hypnotised a boy so small

that breeze snuffed out his Mothers call.

 

Another hand had taken his

as in the jar the insect sits,

two tiny lives broke into bits

as Seagulls screeched the ages tripped.

 

Caterpillar on a stone beach wall

that never found its wings at all,

but like the child was stole away

too far from where sweet children play.

 

Words were once no more than shapes

like humans formed from lowly apes,

who dragged their violent knuckles down

yet rose to Coronate a Crown.

 

Beneath such weight the mind succumbs

with pummelling fists its reason numbed,

from apes to men cruel jungles rise

to build fine cages full of lies…

 

bejewelled and vast with gold adorned

the “Uneasy Head” lies severed, scorned…

by blade and greed evolved through time

this incarnation, our gravest crime.

 

 

“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown”

 

There is no specificity intended in these lines regarding any particular seat of power. The observation is toward the corruptible nature of power itself.  

 

 

Words fall into dreams like waterfalls

at precipice, where flat earth fools

congregate in village halls

and ponder how to subvert schools

with grappling hooks cross playground walls.

 

It’s just a dream with raining words

no sense required in slumbered peace,

in forests where trees fall unheard

and kingdoms end yet never cease…

a rainbow’d storm of tumbling words.

 

To wake to jumbled alphabets like children’s

bricks beneath your feet,

where days begin lest you forget

your scattered consciousness incomplete,

then try to build a wall with them

that somehow has those two worlds meet.

 

Awake is just a dream reversed, turned

inside out and back to front

a replay of the unrehearsed you thought

you knew and didn’t want…but somehow

you could not resist so placed yourself

beneath its font.

 

The house stands quiet behind its useless walls,

as if a wedding cake cut but not devoured.

Discarded tools and children’s toys, the crumbs of life.

Inside, a stagnant calm of dust breathes for no-one.

 

Patches of earth curled with weeds.

The scratchings of beasts consumed by men

score the kill pen floor. Men who ate with fingers

greased with blood and vengeful minds.

 

Veiled women’s screams linger in the stairway,

muffled detonations absorb their sobs.

Imagine the swirl of air, the cordite stench

the settling of the coming silence, until now.

 

Images that ripple out beyond this frame,

across the jagged mountains and ever-changing seas.

Within this place peace has come…

its displaced rage beats in younger hearts.

 

Chalk and flint the Saintly path

that wends its tranquil peaceful way,

its steepled skies belie the wrath

that split the clouds on darker days.

 

The refuge of the oaken pew

the coolness of the sacred stone,

that drew the workers, poor and few

to ask they give all they had known.

 

With barley grain and nurtured lamb

on harvest thanks the faithful came,

as humble as only humble can

they laid their toil in Jesus’ name.

 

And now the marbled gentry lie

entombed and marked for all to see,

beneath the spires of Hampshire sky

as common man lies neath the tree.

 

Buried in her wedding dress

the tomb a ruin now,

cracked open is what once was blessed

where dogs and vermin prowl.

 

On fertile steps of Grove and Vine

where boots so cruelly stamped,

once yours, now theirs’s, that once was mine,

too many tribes encamped.

 

But hearts and minds don’t document

with paper, pen and deed,

what’s taken, forced, was never lent

it’s blood that bears the seed…

 

and blood that flows finds fertile earth

to grow its tender roots,

where shoots and saplings nurture worth

to crush the stamping boots…

 

that smashed the graves and raised the rats

where fruit and families grew,

that they in turn one day perhaps

return to lands they knew.

 

 

Whilst in The Lebanon in 1996 I was on a rural walk in the hills above Beirut in a place called Abey. Throughout history, as one might imagine the land had been conquered, occupied, retaken and re-settled on many occasions. There are ancient and relatively new burial sites across the region. Some so recent that the damage could be interpreted as desecration.

 

Whilst on the ramble accompanied by several of my colleagues and our trusted protective hounds I came across (or rather our dogs led me to) a fractures tomb in which I saw the skeletal remains of a woman apparently buried in her wedding dress. The dogs were obviously keen to get inside the tomb and I moved them away.

 

That image has stayed with me all these years and I have often thought about who the people were who had lived it that then deserted spot prior to their displacement.

 

That personal memory can be multiplied to thousands who have witnessed displacement first hand. I cannot imagine fully how they must feel. Such events have been visited upon many communities in that region…the cycle of revenge and resentment is forecast to endure for many years unless someone has the courage to simply stop.