87/2023

Springscape. Pigeons frozen
In trees, the knife of wind from
The north cutting into blood
Across heath and city. The
Stasis of waiting for what
Every year promises but
The shifting seasons don’t
Release until too late. The
Terrain of this living is an
Uneven battlefield, craters
And unexploded bombs
Of days crammed into
The busy spaces where
Humans linger for solace.

R 28/03/2023 08:38

We pick our way clumsily
Over the terrain of love,
Edged as it is in betrayals,
Trusts undone, tests passed
And failed, words invented to
Please, flatter, seduce, and
Bind.

By the time we reach what
We never knew we were
Reaching for, we are muddy
Corpses, broken-boned and
Broken-souled, soiled by the
Lies we have told and heard.

And yet, despite the mine
Field we have crossed, despite
The wounds we have endured
And inflicted, we start again,
Even this close to the end,
We start believing that
Love can yet cure us.

R 28/03/2023 11.37