The Silver Tree

(By Gub, the 30th of July, Hay-on-Wye)

Leaf'd willow
Bark'd oak
Or alder spine

The fruit falls
Sober flat
Upon the ground.

The buds that yearly
Blossom
Besmirched
By age
By time.

Tree's entropy
Pears turn to slime
And are crushed under foot
By innocent tramples
Not knowingly but once
Sourced
The loss forever
Associates fear with guilt
And... falling foliage, sound.

Forgotten child
Forget
Forgot

Further
Found...

Provocation

(By Sil, the 30th of July, 2011, HBC)

Think of me
Running in the heathlands
Covering your step
Treading the forbidden path to the left
And though your aversion
Will scour my calf like tangled gorse
I’ll break through
This partition taboo
I won’t stop
Until I’ve marvelled
At ink-stained rock
Submerged in froth
The morning sun
Casts on us all tomb divers
The same detached stare
Beauty cannot be fenced-off
And if you dare
Me
With one gentle brush of hand
I will prove
The mighty fortress you built on this beach
Is just a castle of sand

Swarm Intelligence

(By Sil, the 27th of July, 2011, London)

Staring at a screen I window-shop seduction
Glamour and song
The cross-section of a world
Where pain is articulate
And redemption is the sleek pomade
On a dandy’s moustache
Thoughts swarm like ants around a crust of bread
Collectables are rounded up and slobbered on
Relentlessly, concussively
I want to crush those trampling beasts
See them punctured like tulip bulbs in spring
I rail
I can’t dress up derail in gold string
Those who can do
Those who can’t – sting

Wound Man

(By Sil, the 26th of July, 2011, Bellenden Road)

You’re coming for a shave
Blood letting or are you
An embattled knave
Show me your gangrene

I have the tools
But you must not balk
At the warm pulsating mass
Nor faint at the sight of
Black oozing mud

My words will hack
Through the bone
With swift precision
Well sharpened saw
Oil of cloves to soothe
(We're out of booze)

A tooth, an amputation,
Whatever hurts
Whatever must be shorn
Wipe a blade clean
Through pain
We're reborn

(Isn't all therapy
Part love
Part medieval surgery?)

Fatality

(By Sil, the19th of July, 2011, on the train to Hereford)

Today I’m wallowing
In bad luck
A piece of toast
Landed buttered side
On a dirty floor
Squashed
My brain
Forced large button
Into a tight buttonhole
Unfastened

Today I hang loose
Today
I’m a reckless recluse
I’ll run over
An innocent passenger
For a change
(Usually
I’m my own
Fatality)

They’ll ask
Did I derail
Am I deranged

Or was it suicide?

Into the Burning

(By Sil, the 18th of July, 2011, London)

There won’t be a song
For you tonight
Or ever
My fingers are mute
Could we just stare
Into the burning
My soul, thin paper
Dissolving into smoke
A doodle of delicate curls
Yes, I’m broke
It’s curious
It’s absorbing
Watching the entrails of a bonfire
So, let’s calmly
Allow the world to be reduced
To watery miasma
For a while
Stretch your arm
Touch the heat
But don’t fret
Don’t run away
The stars themselves
Are blisters
Enslaved by the beauty
Of all-consuming plasma.

The Loom

(By Gub)

Love
The energiser
The blooming loom
Weaving light
From darkness' basket
blossoms
From the womb.

Yet there is
a brood
Of menace,
Twilight casts shadows from the hill
Sparks in the valley
Remind us
Winds, storms and winter
Can still prevail

What use our wants or longing
Desire unquenched
By petulance or pride
Love has its own vanity
Adolescent temper,
Unsure
As any bride.

Yet mellow with this madness
Give in slowly
To succulent thrill.
Harmony is ageing
Love's test
A patient
Still

The wicker
Hand of an ancient
Loved one
Clasped tight around
That ring
A band of metal faces
Outwards
A silver watermill

Light dances
Off the circle
Moments time inscribes
Those yesterdays
were once tomorrows

The gift
That love
Defined.

One Step... Further On

(By Gub, the 4th of July, 2011, London)

The wind felt tree,
Felled for fuel-

The child in the playground
Driving their own kids to school-

The pristine wedding gift, tarnished,
Bereft of sheen-

Away from the motions of marvel
From those now unseen-

The burden of science is to unlock
The past

Unravel the mystery of life with
Boundless zeal

Ignore the weakened answers
To an unquenchable expansive quest

The space between us shrinks, as conscience
Drifts-

Dark matter - irresolute, unresolvable-

A human symphony, cacophonic youth which age mutes into
a dull hiss

-A blur-

And we're gone

Pieces

(By Sil, the 8th of July, London)

History still flows
And I’ll get swept away
Unlike a salesman
History doesn’t knock shyly
Unlike a thief
It doesn’t try its luck slyly
Probing at the cat-flap.

Spelled out and folded thin
The deluge spills in
Through an intentional slit in the door
With tardy eloquence
It blows over the soup of past hurts
If you attack it, tear at it and
Shove the pieces in the bin
It still beckons.

Two, eight, thirteen, twenty
Numbers attached to unrest
What to commemorate
What to forget?
How to avoid feeling like
I’ve tripped in the wings
And stumbled into someone
Else’s drama

An unrehearsed guest?