food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it wouldbe a merrier world' J.R.R. Tolkien
Mother
I shouted ‘milk!’ at the milk
but it didn’t
react
at
all.
I knew it well;
even what it
would become.
Still, it floated
white and flat
in a clear glass
chimney pot
on my black
and mottled
table top until
gulp-gulped, as nectar,
by a passing child of mine.
New Year
Rainfall in the winter
hits a rooftop, grey,
- a momentary treasure
clattering crazy slate but, hey,
it’s running to the centre
of wells inside the garden
glassy, level, cold
until a human grasps at
meniscus, aims to hold
the gold
and swig it for their pleasure
but when the pleasure’s ended
and hands have wiped a mouth,
how far that person gazes
to east, west, north and south,
for truth
and seeking purer water.
At a time he sensed was right
up he stood like a reluctant schoolboy
twisting keys in his right hand pocket,
excruciating as an amateur only
can be, and he started to sing, quietly
and human, a song we’d all heard before
- at least for the chorus – and he sang the verses,
growing more confident with our support
and do you suppose nothing else happened
that night as he opened his heart like a rainbow?
A melting of oldness and newness ensued
and the tune that was sung by a small Irish crowd
swelled like a wave from our depth, in a song,
and we filled, overflowed, by the beauty I cried.
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