Bullies

The testers
poking and prodding
specimens stretched tight
watching who snaps
chucking the rejects out
with a sneer

The angry
stalking their prey
sensing the poor unwitting one
who struggles to face a daunting world
crushing him for daring to mirror
their own failing souls

The gleeful
fangs and fan clubs ready
warmed by the fire of fear
quenching their thirst on tears
dancing to the music of panic
playing to a baying crowd

Scavengers, predators, parasites,
armoury fierce and strong
hiding their wounds
resisting detente
making it hard to find
the divine spark within

the dark night of the shoulder

rusted cogs
shrieking protest
fitfully grinding

old pump handle
chained down
resentfully jangling

slow fire
smouldering
threatening flares

the dark
tendinitis
of the shoulder

Lee Abbey

A small, unguarded opening appears
in our busy, walled-in, scheduled days,
and we pack up, set off, go west,
hustled at first by manic carriageways,

then nudged along by gentler Devon lanes.
The world slows down. Around a bend we spot
the Valley of the Rocks – sheer, mighty,

filled with sculpted crags and craggy goats.

A final bend, and something softly breaks;
a last vestigial remnant of those walls
of tasks and duties gently crumbles.
In this thin place through widening gaps we glimpse

a world more real. Much-loved fields slope down
to Lee Bay. Hills in tandem frame the view,
and further off, three headlands in a row
dip their rocky toes into the sea.

We park, unpack perceived necessities;
I find a friendly bench and sit, and wait.
A wave of peace laps round my soul—
I breathe in this belovèd, hallowed site.

A dozen fir trees basking in the sun
lean back from years of prodding by the breeze,
and from their copse survey the valley's breadth.
A chitt chitt from the lawn diverts my gaze

to where a counterbalanced wagtail bobs,
her tail's rise matching each quick dip for grubs.
Nearby a proud, fat robin shows disdain
for lesser birds, the lord of his terrain.

Above, the angry, cassocked crows contest
their places in the council of the trees,
and hustling seagulls soar and swoop and seek
another unsuspecting mark to fleece.

The little bobbing wagtail seems to say,
'Don't seek your future far above
among the rancorous cantankerous crows;
heaven is found wherever eyes made whole

gaze through the crumbling walls to that far land
closer than breath.
Follow the woven cord, knotted within this place;

be still, and hear the wild goose sing.'

'three headlands in a row'

'A dozen fir trees basking in the sun'