the belly of the whale

flotsam from the wreck of time
we drift on the endless tide
and dream of home
and dream of towers of gold

and we fear the thousand teeth
and the angry fire in the belly
of Leviathan

and the great beast ploughs on
its inexorable path
along the whale-roads
and each quantum wobble's hoovered up
like krill

the whale does not share our qualms
is not picky
will not spew out on an unforgiving beach
the warrior or the worrier
welcomes into the abyss of its jaws
the king or the craven
the lover of the other
and the lover of the same
the saint and the uncertain

to be in the belly of the whale
is to hear the heartbeat of the universe
to be at once consumed and remade
to be carried to the unknown shore

Leviathan cares both less and more than us
less for titles, tidiness, sway
and more for blood and bridges and joy

and the only hell is to be left behind
as rotting driftwood on the tide

Whisk(e)y cake

Whisky cake, O Whisky cake!
O alcoholic, frisky cake!
Oh, had I known what lay in store,
I might have spurned you, risky cake.

In Sainsbury’s store lay requisites:
Spices, flour and fruity bits,
A pretty tin to carry you,
With flowers and hearts and such-like glitz.

A Sunday afternoon of baking,
Rubbing, stirring, sieving, shaking,
Oven heated, cake tins greased,
Oh the joys of fruit-cake making.

Savouring the rich aroma,
Amateur – that’s a misnomer –
(What is it comes before a fall?)
Give myself a chef’s diploma!

Sifted sugar, butter, zest,
Orange juice, freshly pressed,
Lastly whisky – that’s the icing,
Made with nothing but the best.

Actually, some might disagree,
About the whisky, for you see,
Tullamore Dew is not a Scotch,
But Irish whiskey, with an ‘e’.

Now the cake is good to go:
Icing like a field of snow,
Smooth and pristine. O vain cook –
Foolish braggadacio!

So the overweaning fool
Tenderly drives the cake to school,
Treads the darkened corridors,
Trips and drops it: fate so cruel!

The horror! The horror! Dark heart so sore:
Thus the world ends, with no more
Than a bang from the tin, a whimper from me:
Out of the cake tin, onto the floor.

All is not lost! The fates relent;
Though the icing's ruined, and the lid is bent,
The cake survives, the tin’s upright —
Put on hold the last lament.

A lesson in humilty,
And the advisability
Of caution in dark corridors
To guarantee tranquility.