Closer To Home

The stark hard truth melts into seasonal greetings

as prize-winning tales endlessly told in gamin form

lurch the seed-thought through empty space

into soil partly tended yet prosaically studied

by scholarly minds right on the mark

chosen for their hilarity beyond words

composed darkly

yet intimate in their lent cross-hatched tone.


Ardvaark the perennial flight

higher now than the slipstream

crossing oceans of sylph-engendered sky

coming through to meet populations

stranded for a while

waiting for their release.

Lonely plover stalking,

keeping wise within the humourless brogue

and undertaking new ways of leaving.

Story-tellers again seeing

and believing the market-driven pleasures

open-ended in their ecstasy

ravaged by cumulatives bench-marks

notched and hammered into place.


Simultaneous transitions


half-past the time for reversing roles

magnetised by delight.

Then they came in greater numbers

than before

pleading for dismemberment of the host.


Closer to home sits the rich

in situation-specific

knowing enclosure,

rowing perhaps against the tide

with wider deeper oar-strokes

finding the vein of gold in the midst of the river.


Perhaps the proof comes

when underneath the seat the cat sleeps

and the post is opened to reveal an invitation

written by hand in Rosicrucian ink

and parting from the incidental

tithes no longer in demand

the freer hand-shake and warm embrace

looks like welcoming back to known parties

communally distinct

strewn with emblems of disenchantment,

ridden on.


And so comes the return to open-plan consciousness

doors dismantled

breath entering all spaces,

dislosed and undislcosed

populated and emphatic

verdant and sparse.


And in that inhalation

comes the breeze sweetly relieved.


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