Seven Abysses

Should you go to descend
Those infamous seven abysses,
Beware of the bones you’ll find.
I am not one for spelunking
In karst dolomites of my mind.

Endless mineshaft’s metal cage,
Canaries for the gasses;
From Flemish sellers
Brought those birds, sold by
Old oblast-men with molasses.

Rattling seven strata through,
No safety gear, no time for fear,
Down to a sunken pool;
Its secret waves will gently spool:
Thoughts are born in here.

Arriving in your evening light,
Sunsets seen renewed!
There’s no such thing as death
I said, collapsed on our bed
In a miner’s welfare cottage.

A Second Meditation

These moments
The mind repackages

Like well-used clothes,
Worn with both human
Necessity and splendour,
Vivid colours, from
Taffeta to cotton,
A logo, a label,
A sari from Goa,
A fashionable dress
You’d forgotten,
Esclavage necklace
A friend had lent
Before they moved
To the continent.
All these thoughts
Eventually deposed
And posted to buyers
From Guildford
And Frome,
(Or if not bought
Then decompose),

Yes, repackaged,
A repurposing.

In the end,
All will seem
Not moments,
But times long ago
Where we wore
Different clothes
On our bodies.