After an evening of rum and soda

I reached the metro before it closed,

wobbled home to the hostel sofa,

flopped myself down and almost dozed

but then I noticed two strange leaves

on one of the courtyard's potted trees

vibrating in the night-time breeze

(like something seen but never heard)

imitating a humming bird !

It seems to me quite sensible to assume
that european future americans
displayed much more than average initiative
to leave their homelands, sail across the sea
and start a new life. Their descendants would
surely inherit some of that quality in their genes
and that 'get up and go' might then explain
the drive of present day white americans.
So it also seems quite plausible to presume
that african americans should someways
surpass their pale skinned current compatriots.
Perhaps their ancestors showed less initiative
in letting themselves be captured and sold as slaves.
But those that survived the involuntary voyage
across the sea surely had more than average
physical and mental strength which surely would
have survived in the genes of their descendants.
Perhaps it's a pity those genetic qualities
may have been diluted by the murder
of recalcitrant slaves and the sexual
predation of some white slave owners.


.

It's much like dermatitis hatching,

the masochistic pain of itching,

the knowingly harmful joy of scratching -

young women in the disco, leching.

I lie in bed on my side awake
listening to the clock in my ear
ticking the time for my life's sake.

I lie on my side awake in bed
knowing the pulse that I can hear
is consciousness inside my head.

I lie awake in bed on my side
and the ticking clock makes it clear
I haven't slept although I tried.

I lie on my side in bed awake
and try to pacify the fear
my ageing heart makes some mistake.

I lie awake on my side in bed
wondering, in some future year,
if I will know when I am dead.

I lie in bed awake on my side
anxious to sleep but able to cheer
another night that I haven't died.

Clouds are gregarious

I motored slowly down the road
so calm and happy, almost high
on summer weather. Long unmowed
on either side the verges showed
a silent crowd of dandelions.

Their lowly heads had not the height
to wave and billow in the breeze;
their flattened faces, packed in tight
could hardly turn and yet the sight
was sunset gold on tropic seas.

Those humble flowers, so despised
by lovers of their lawns, can still
hold up their stunted heads comprised
of tiny, complex florets and will
contest the vaunted daffodil.

The floor is full of dancing women

swaying to the band,

a sisterhood of beauty brimming

fun and friendship, crammed

in front of happy landlord grinning

while their partners, jammed

against the walls, continue swimming

through their drinks and stand

unmoved by all the catchy rhythms

as if to dance is banned.

Back home though men insist on winning

conjugal rights as planned,

moving tto a different rhythm

without the need to stand.

But might the girls like dance elation

more than monotone copulation ?

Material for Myth

I raise my head and rest from a session of winter digging.
It isn't really cold but still my nose is dripping.
Damp and growing dark. Eastward the wind is rolling
a grey duvet of cloud across a bare hill's muscled shoulder;
westward is a skyline of skeletal trees resembling
a distant platoon of ragged soldiers surrendering.
A single seagull tacks across the wind spiralling
arabesques on the sky. Now a flotilla of more gulls
appears, a wind blown bluster of white leaves whirling.
Then I hear the call. I know the sound. Like a mewing
animal. I search the sky. There. High up, circling
around each other. Not animals but birds. Buzzards.
Three of them dancing the air, continually calling.
And now two more fly in to join them, all five ascending
toward the clouds. Five ! Surely they must stop rising
now. They are almost into the bottom of the cloud.
But no. One by one they disappear into the grey fluff.
I wait for them to re-appear. Nothing. I keep watching.
Still no sign of them. Eventually I tire of waiting,
shoulder my spade and start to walk home wondering
what an earlier more superstitious age would have made
of the event. Some secret place in the clouds welcoming
the birds home ? An avian territory ? A Kingdom of Buzzards ?