Days of Autumn
Autumn - leaves strewn form patterns of shape and colour. Light winds create a murmur Of falling colours, leaving branches bare. Chimneys smoke again and the sweeps roam. On back door step are boots brushed clean once they were Laden with clay earth. Ancient fires lance the villages, Potatoes removed flake their skins in the hardened hands of Blacksmiths, Carpenters and Journeymen. An odour of camphor rises from the overcoats of priests who make their rounds under the glare of returning full moon. Cordite fizzles in a crackered air kids tremble at the fire's edge small hands grip the skirts of mothers sparks of energy fly into the night sky. Over barbed fence in silent flight the barn owl ghost white goes, twisting its head to look at the opening of a door. On gathering cool nights frosted breath marks a music score in the dark, deep In the woods foxes howl. Comforted by murmurs and stories the people retreat to wait the light after living through many nights. The dull sounds of drums Breaks through the blinding fog.
The Last Bullets
The last bullets are for you Plugging into the flesh Running away That's how the news reported Mown down by the fire The hot barrels smoking Feathers of passing birds Floated down Doors opened, shutters untied Flags were raised Dogs ran from the houses Children brought out kites They had passed through Armies of the desert Leaving scent trails of gasoline Plumes from the burning rose Were they gone forever The heavy boots of soldiers? We walked with soft shoes Ploughing our fields, agriculture returned Soon we had cleared the mines Setting down feasting blankets Swimming in the warm waters Of rivers that seeped into the horizon The dust clouds of their heavy machines Had settled long ago and now swallows came With swift flight Over the golden ears of corn We thought that our windows Should be opened To the morning call Of larks That we could melt the last bullets And form them into weather vanes They would spin attracting light From every rooftop