blckbird

My mind is of a blank
Nothing I can do or should
I am not in charge,have not control
Just lying here,the light too low
Print too small,the Penguin pages fading brown
Not black and white;orange back in crumple.
What to write when mind a blank
Do I think of green-wood trees
Limes in linden-lea,stung with summer bees
Friends in terracotta streets,magnolia walls
Gossip tea rooms,diesel,fish and chips,
Rejoin the conversation I left ten days a go
Unchanged as always.
Family calls and telephones
Jack's coal black eyes sat at my feet
Thunder clouds and butterflies
Waiting for the rain?

The mist,cold,dank-moon-lit-silver-white
early morning chill beneath a late full moon,
slipping catabatic towards the darkened valley
how or why I did not know, the bell rang three,
stumbling in the half light,was I still asleep
was this dream or,nightmare?Was I wake?
There was a glow about this veil
ectoplasmic company made me feel alone
I forced my way felt it close behind
looked back,stretched my arms to part the way
all was still,as still,as still can be
this was more than quietness,
my skin was numb,could see the shadows
as they scratched and slowed my way
the departing night was cold
four hours 'til the dawn and sun
to dry my sweating brow.

The sickle lies in the antique shop
ash-wood handle split and loose
cast aside and with contempt
thousand years it gave us bread,
far more than swords and axes,
swung by women and their children,
helped by men between the wars,
rarely fought in autumn.
The Russians have it on their flag
flying with the hammer......
no guns on the blood red standard.
But here it lies,blunt,leaning on the wall
going for six pound fifty.
Stay awhile and doff your hat
to the labourer who swung this blade
bright and sharp,grey stone in his pocket
blacksmith,fire and quenching water,
taken home each night,wrapped in oily rag,
set beside the kitchen door and heavy boots,
coat behind the door,clip-rug on the floor
children round the table,smiling in the fire light
fresh baked bread and soup,
pray for sun tomorrow.

Crystals on the window panes
shining pavement walks and gurgling gutters
mirror pools and scurrying clouds
gaudy umbrellas,pink boots and plastic macs.
Today the grass looks greener,standing tall
wild flowers kaleidoscopic more than Jacob's coat
gold finch on the feeder,eager sun flower seeds !
seems not to mind rain dripping from her tail.
somewhere dry her brood,three perhaps.Who knows?
Birds dashing to their nests,never look to find them,
ethnic congregations,narrow chattering streets
of dripping leaves,dark alleys,ivy on the wall
happy in the rain or sun,(not so much in winter)
each day the same no matter what the weather.
My tea that bit warmer,no milk today,
bought too much on Thursday
spoilt the first cup of the day,
curdled as I poured it,will I never learn ?
Jack's curled on the rug one eye on me
the other on a walk........
he knows its raining 'course he does
takes his lesson from the gold finch
feeding in the rain.

There is tumult in the air.
Was it ever so ?
I watched a fight the other day
a blackbird and a worm.
It was ever so.
I did not stop to watch
or even to take sides,
it was ever so,
blackbirds cannot live on bread alone.
Do I ask him not to call
not to warn me of a storm
simply because he killed a worm?
His forecasts will be sound as ever,
a dark side 'neath the feathers
it was ever so.

The old track crunches its way to Llangollen,
through fields and sheep and rain
racing with the road that Telford laid
the canal,boats,ducks and motor cars
all going west this morning.
Do you know the place its Eisteddod
choirs, and dancing in the street?
Red dragons flying high tall hats
and pretty women,Celts,Saxons,Vikings
foot steps,strange tunes from the Urals,
sopranos heavy in their blouses.
The parish church,its cassocked crow
en-caustic tiles,tunes in Welsh and English
bilingual prayers on Sundays.
Steam,stopping at the bridge
once going on to England
built over now,hotels and B and B.
coach park,pensioners,tea and cakes.
There beside the hurry of the Dee,
struggling through sleeping whales of rock
the station falling to the river
clinging to the bank,black slate tiles,
signal box,children on the foot plate
engine driver,dirty in his pride.
Clashing camera shutters,plastic wind mills
ice cream queues and candy-floss
babel voices,friends to meet again next year.

But today all quiet,March too early,cold and grey,
walk the empty streets dream July and sun
come again to join the merriment and song.
For now take coffee sit and smiling talk,
warm yourself before you lean the bridge
to watch the froth and roar
shiver,pull on the gloves and scarf
find again the railway track and gravel
now going east and home.