After the nonsense of the last 3-4 days (for which see yesterday's post) I needed an area of sanity and peacce to get writing again, so naturally, I went to look at Magpie Tales' brief for this week:-
And when the tools of war are hung upon the wall,
what tools have they become? Do they look down,
broadsword and battleaxe, lance, shield and dirk,
on scenes of verbal jousting round a table set
with fare from bygone days? Or are they tools
for lives vicarious, of derring-do's vainglory?
Perhaps they're looking down, embarrassed and ashamed
of all the blood that once dripped from their blades or dried
in abstract characters on wood or leathern shield.
They teach their lessons and they sing their songs,
they murmur prayers or point towards their visions
and demand to know of us: where do we stand? Are
we romantic glorifiers? historical
deniers? Or those who think they learn by their mistakes?
and then this happened:-
Standing where I am,
and looking from the bedroom window
down into a busy road,
busy with its busy people going home,
I cannot see it all;
the trees and other vehicles
protect it, snuggling in its lair
from outside view.
Inflating and deflating like a toad -
that much I see.
A boat of some kind,
with a roof-rack where its sails should be.
A fish towards the bows.
but somehow streamlined, like a shark.
Wide, low and blue, an anchor for a tusk,
and to the rear, with upturned tail -
a scorpion, I fear.
A man, my neighbour,
with power hose, washes it,
the late sun sparkling off the jet.
St George, I reason,
does battle with
the half-organic, half bionic
(We never witnessed scenes like this
before the house price slump.)
I shall in future treat
my neighbour with respect.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
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