Outset

Not surprisingly, 
an ant,
as small as the felt tip 
of a pen,
in the vast synthetic 
desert
in which you work,
picks up the scent 
of yesterday’s curling sandwich,
from many ant miles 
away.

At the outset 
of a working day,
each task
set by the master
strikes you 
as being nothing short
of impossible.

Then again,
nothing goes 
to waste.

St George and the Dragon

Recently, I was born at St George’s Hospital.

High on their weeping concrete wall, of course,

is mounted a dark bronze statue of an erect St George

stomping forever on the squirming dragon.

Every year since, I have hoped to grow pumpkins

and replace the clock in the kitchen with one that doesn’t tick…

But I’m not exactly what you call a high achiever,

and I have, in this short space of time, done very wrong things,

usually after fluking acts of extreme goodness.

There is one thing, however, that must be said in my defence,

which is this: that whenever it is time again

to take a passing glance at that popular statue

(on my way to my son’s music lesson, or the carwash, perhaps)

I have always done my best to broker a deal

between George and that much aligned water-loving serpent.

“I prefer to eat sheep,” argues the dragon, “but they send me maidens.”

“Well you should refuse them,” replies St George.

“But a dragon must eat something,” points out the dragon. “And besides,

they’re not even Christians yet.”

“Ahh,” smiles the knight, “I’ll soon fix that...”

As they say, the rest is historicity,

and so, in reality, I have failed again, while ever more babies

are born behind the wall, and the dark bronze

threatens to break out in green blotches,

and the angels all go soldiering on.

Telos and Technic

Here rests a man who was an eater of feathers,

Whose grass was blue, and whose skies were pasture green.

We gave him a bunch of flowers, which he tried set alight,

And a bowl of fruit, which he rolled across the floor.

Thanks to him, we can now say, with some certainty,

That God neither wrote the dictionary, nor wasted his time

In some sorting house where each thing finds a function.

Seriously, this man filled his pockets with broken glass.

So how did such a man survive? You are quite entitled to ask.

Well, we placed him in a cage of love, and threw away his name.

We channeled him a flow of mediocre cinema classics,

And deprived him of his access to other people’s beds.

Were these the ways of our Saxon cousins, our Ming dynasty kin,

Our Aztec sisters, our brothers in ranks of Shaka?

Hold on to your money, you punters on the fate of Earth -

Here rests a man who laughed whenever it rained!