Eton Mess

They made a pudding, gave it a name,
Now two repasts are never the same;
No table-head, no Toby Jugs,
No morning kiss, nor goodnight hugs.

Hunting for meringues, cold sugar-coated,
Furs of fox, and wicket-weasel throated.
Institutions in the wolds
Poured strawberries on the whipping folds.

A kitchen cabinet’s full of mugs,
The mugs have mugshots made of thugs,
They bore a mace, wore ermine gowns,
And pasted slogans through the towns.

Ah, they’re cheering cracks of willow paddle!
But underneath the leather saddle
There’s neither lion, nor horse from shire,
But running creases, Truth’s for hire.

It’s butter churned at Corpus Christi,
Though source of Sophistries are misty;
I’d rather pen-portay an anarchy,
Than this Middle England’s apathy

To anaphylactic taxing of our sense,
We’re told its better for defence
Of national interests long since sold;
They’ve got the cure for common cold.

Moving On, Not Moving On

Do you remember
When love was composed
Of moments that mattered.
I remember incomplete
Semblances of light
Piercing through patresses
Which flattered the soul,
Landing on the carpets
And comforting rugs
Of sentences
Sometimes forgotten,
But habitually
Resurfacing without knowing
Their purpose as they’d unfold.

See how in these strands
Of memory alert to
Dust in slow-burning noons,
There is nowhere for me
To hide as soon sunlight glides
Into my room for the living,
My coffee is cold, and memories
Unforgivingly dismember
The ingredients for
Moving on.
How we agreed we fitted
Like pieces cut into life’s puzzle,
Or a key in a gate
To meadows where

Buttercups would bloom
In the yellow hues of useless
Eternity; for we are two keys
For other locksmiths
And like pollen
Our love was scattered
To the four seas, those ranging
Blue plinths of the sacred minds
Of prophetesses who once
Spelunked in the Hebrides and
Who own more love now, more
Respect than my Hesperides
Descending through the bones
Of half-closed curtains.

Yes, we moved on
From the fusing of our arteries,
From the quiet platform
Of fond remembrance.

Chirapsia

I massaged your back,
And the shorelines of my hands
Reached pebbles shaped like
Hearts, smooth and
As timeless as arts
Of bread-making in Assyria,
Where your aunts
Tandoor-baked Lawasha,
A delicate knead
Under knuckles ringed with
Garnets and wrinkles;
And reaching further still,
To the cave paintings of
Cueva de las Manos
Where human handprints
Abound and surround
A rhea’s three-toed foot.
The pebbles amassed
Themselves into stones
Which in turn composed
Into rocks and then cliffs
Over the minims and clefs
Of millennia, until
A whole coast emerged
Within your deltoids and
Trapezius, everything
Formed and reformed like
Disciplined ghosts
Of well-drilled archers
Who died fighting for Priam
On shores just south of
The Dardenelles’ mouth,
Where turquoise
Beaches of glass still
Shimmer, the same glass
Delighted the necks of
Ilion’s women,
As bright as Cassinian moons
In Saturnshine loops
In a distant, limpid river.

The Baleful Foal

Dreams swept down
Through the dale-deep village,
Seeking the sockets of sleeping
Minds and restless feet,
The muscles of the dreams
Are deep, but their feathers
Flowing over yeomen
Who kept their watch
With tired eyes
Are light.

A flock of omens,
A snoring of speech,
Like snake-throated
Cloud-birds hunting in pairs,
Reaching with blood
On their talons for
The granules of sight,
As rain falls from the loft
The grains plummet and
Nourish fertile fields,

Unobserved, unfelt,
Where mattocks tilled and
Machinery harrowed,
As sparrowhawks strafe
The wakes of mice,
So too the roots of
Their subconsciousness
Received the seeds
Of food, for sustenance.
I also encountered those

Dreams sheltered within
Other dreams,
Like a pregnant horse
Safe in waning hays
And felt-ceilinged stable,
You slept in the folds
And the hairs of a mare,

While I lay awake
In dark latent aches of

The baleful foal.