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Friday, 28 February 2025

Head of house

House without doors, house without windows

House with no one inside or out


House, made of thorns, a protection of sorts

Or a suggestion


That home is all we have to cling to

Or that home is all we have

In our struggle to get away



Thursday, 27 February 2025

Heads of state

The road sign says No horse racing on the carriageway

A good job on that day; for you were past racing

Your racing days were over

All your days were over


It was the first time that I had seen a glass and crystal coffin carriage

Horse drawn, groomed for the occasion

You would have liked the sign Road closed for a funeral procession

Hundreds, maybe thousands of well wishers

Stand back, make way, by notices they are instructed


The sun shone then as the sun shines now - outside the gallery

Inside, a casket: Lacrymatory - The Jerpoint kick-starts the memory

Of someone I never ever knew

Though I know now, my chasing days too are almost over

All of those days are almost over



Wednesday, 26 February 2025

RIP

Take the stairway


Three floors below zero

Four metres of concrete


Walk along the corridor


Five doubts of past depressions

Six days of blackened sun


Turn, in step


Seven twisted corrugations

Eight minds, stolen or shattered



Tuesday, 25 February 2025

Ripples

Three floors below zero, four metres of reinforced concrete

Carried in cages over cavernous excavations


Or in tunnels, pure of artificial light

Boulders blasted with dynamite explosives

Underworlds that underscore, they symbolise symbolic art


Doubt

Descent

Disappearance

Dust

Disfigured man

Duress

Distrust


Water, darkened by the slowly blackened sun

On the sands twisted corrugations minds are shattered or stolen



Monday, 24 February 2025

Lost at sea

Mischievous to leave so much to the imagination

The sun on the fenlands was always joyous

And then


Wars happen everywhere don’t they?

People lose their minds or have their minds

Taken away


Manipulated by overt forces that might…

No I don’t expect so


Good intentions seem so far away now

Over the grey horizon from where you

Half returned


From where innocent men don’t return at all

Unless by some stroke of luck

Their naivety helps them choose to avoid engagement