Thursday, 18 September 2014

The Final Round

Sitting in the hotel foyer for safety,
we talk and talk and talk;
endlessly going over the same old ground;
round and round in circles.

We've been there since nine am.
At three in the afternoon, exhausted,
you fall asleep, leaving me hoping,
believing, we've reached a way forward.

We're in a Marriot, a nice one,
on a golf course, and we've had
morning coffee and lunch, sitting
safely in the foyer.

Time now, when you wake, to go home,
and try to start again (again):
So many new beginnings.
Time now to go home.

This is the last negotiation. We don't
know it yet, but this is the last round
either of us will have the stomach for.
Next step an ending.

I order tea, while you sleep upright,
in the striped wing chair,
and flick through the complimentary paper.
I'll wake you up soon.

I'm exhausted too, and carefully
fold away my lists of issues
back into my bag.
So many issues.

The hotel foyer's safe.
We've both been civilised,
behaved appropriately here,
in the public eye.

I ask for the bill, and fold the paper,
and shake you gently awake,
and we gather ourselves together
for our last new start.


Sent from my iPhone

Tuesday, 19 August 2014

Walls Tumble

And now you are connected to everything that ever was and everything that ever will be. And Joshua calls and the walls of Jericho tumble down. A line runs through history, and you are here, and he is there, but both of you have always been, will always be. Joshua cries, and I feel walls tumble, and ages pass, and all things are made holy as this mighty grandchild arrives.


On the arrival of Joshua, 18.8.14

Sunday, 17 August 2014

A Kind of Prayer

Sitting still in the forest is a kind of prayer. Each tree has a different voice, as the wind stirs its branches, and I listen in, on an endless, age old conversation. It starts to my right with  a deep deep hum, then encircles me, thrum, thrum, all around. Breeze on my face. A woodpigeon calls. Distant cars. 

Tuesday, 12 August 2014

One Good Reason

Give me a reason, give me one good reason why I should
never again, they said, this will never happen again
and the bride wore white and the groom wore black and
they all lived together in a little row boat clap clap - clap your hands
and warm them at the fire
we'll have pilchards on toast;
in the microphone, out the microphone, three bags full
Hold them to account
and by god, we don't know what's true or false
and BRING DOWN THE WALL
there's still a wall, there's still a wall
and I don't know how to
make sense of it all
Sense of it at all
but the sky is still perfect
and the full moon appears
and little bo peep has lost all her sheep in the war; and I"ll
just drink my tea now
just drink my tea and
just fall asleep until
morning

Friday, 8 August 2014

Longing for Wings

As the wind catches me
on the walk back towards home,
I feel for a moment that I can fly:
As if this ancient tug is calling me
to spread my wings. I lift my face
to the grey sky and feel the wind.
Longing for wings,
I walk home.

Monday, 4 August 2014

Blood on your hands


Yes, there is blood on all our hands now ,
and the feeble post war cry "We didn't know! We didn't know!"
rings hollow, as we scroll through
the bodies piled in ice cream fridges,
and move on from yet another post about
yet more dead children in Gaza.

No one knew, supposedly, about the camps,
and the bodies piled high and cremated day by day,
and the piles of shoes, and glasses getting higher.
No one knew, and a shocked world recoiled in 1945.
Well now we know.

We know in every glance at our Facebook feed,
every tweet, we know, we know, we
listen to the spin and the things not said on the news as we
scroll through more pictures of dead children,
and open another bottle of wine.

Our governments have blood on their hands,
From the arms shipments sent, and the
media controlled, and do they sleep at night,
as the shells and rockets fall on a people trapped
in the biggest concentration camp of all?

The old colonial rule of choosing
one side to favour, another to blame.
And meanwhile the numbers of dead rise and rise,
until the numbers blur and we
can't imagine it any more.
Behind the dead, the maimed, the blind, the orphaned, the homeless,
and 400,000 people refugees
in a concentration camp, seeking shelter where now exactly?

For shame, for shame, you civilized world,
and there is blood on all our hands now,
and every leader who has failed to act,
should hang their head in shame.
Because you did know.
Because you do know.
The blood on your hands won't wash out.