Three poems

Chasing my own tail, in truth. So here are three poems based on the prompts of the last three days. It seems like the change in clocks has robbed me of at least a real hour a day rather than me gaining even an imaginary one.

Age

This is an age I never
Thought to reach when
I was young and foolish,
And in love with the idea
Of poetic martyrdom, when
I thought thirty was old,
And fifty ancient, and
Anything beyond that
Impossible.

Life spreads its warmth and
Wounds into our tissue, the
Feeling of having grafted
Until our bones are
Incapable of holding us
Together, tiredness such
An unmanageable condition,
The adverse reaction of
Striving and struggling.

This illusion of mellow
Ageing, of sitting and enjoying
A well-earned rest in
Our dotage, is another
Untruth peddled by those
Who didn’t want us to
Survive this long in the
First place, and by those
Who still don’t understand
How hard we have worked.

R 02/11/2024 12:43

Basilisk

In the dark, this night,
The fire out, the sand black,
A sound creeps closer from
Inside the earth, a smooth
Sibilant slow slither of a
Sliver from an ancient life
Reawakened by the sun of
Sparks and flame, eight
Minutes through the
Thinning ether.

Invisible grains shift in the
Opaque, the dark complete, and
The world’s turning suddenly
Slowed by unseen powers, the
Mysteries of change and
Evolutions, a violent step up
From one civilisation
To the next.

Now the sand writhes and
Collapses away from itself,
A massive head unwraps,
Its steady eyes yellow slits
In the black. It holds still
As its massive body follows,
Halts to breathe the new air.

The queen of serpents shines
Her light on her empire, and the
World shivers in her glow.

R 03/11/2024 18:34

Mirror Of History

We try to fox time into
Thinking it hasn’t passed us by,
Stay up late at weekends, and
Then fail to get up early enough
To make the most of the passing.

In the artificial light of the changed
Season, we sip wine and minutes
Slowly, cover up the clocks and
Pretend we’re immortal and endless,
Until our bodies give up after late night
Entanglement and its exhaustion.

Morning light is cruellest in
This mirror of history.

R 03/11/2024 18:40