Walking the dog in Stoke Park

I want to feed my mind with words: to read,

But Biggles wants a walk. It's getting late,

And so he tilts his head and eyes his lead – 

The space between my ears will have to wait. 

Once off the lead he warps and wefts the grass

Past avenues of oak and beech and lime;

I stroll; he tracks from spoor to spoor; we pass

The playground, childhood's space to swing and climb. 

Peace creeps up on me. Tightened, tangled knots 

Begin to loosen in my cluttered soul. 

It wasn't words I needed – yet more thoughts –

Just time and space to stretch, relax, unfurl. 

Life has its rhythms: there are times to read,

And also times to follow the dog's lead. 

The Last Passover

και ἠτοιμασαν το πασχα     Luke 22:13

Darkness like the hovering wings
of a waiting bird of prey
shadows the kneeling figure
whose tears stain the ground like blood.

The feast of freed slaves has arrived;
they make ready the passover:
sweep the large room, set the low tables;
the lamb is prepared to be butchered.

The angel of death broods
upon the face of history:
wine is spilt; bread roughly torn;
coins change hands. Chaos is come again.

A pessimist's triolet

Tomorrow is another day?
Another chance to lose and fail.
Optimists will blithely say,
'Tomorrow is another day!'
But that is just a clichéd way
Of chasing a delusive grail.
Tomorrow is another day:
Another chance to lose and fail.