News of a stabilised reign

Cry to us, travelling town crier, of the coronation,
of gleaming metals never glanced upon here; just glum copper,
of velvet and visions that don’t involve us.

Tell your tale, tale-teller,
and don’t leave out the licentiousness and the late-hour brawls
for us to relate to lest we wander off forlorn,
lest our serf-hearts stray from the crown’s signpost.

Gossip about gowns, gossip-mongerer,
worn by haughty highborn, forever out of reach but still hideous.
Convince us to care if you can;
let us agree on palace attire while our men assemble in the barns.
Reap our attention, report back our loyalty; keep your eyes off the robbers.

Spoils of War

Wisps of mist waft over the battlefield
Where to?
Who cares? Questions have faded long ago,
along with the crying.
Righteousness lies in the mud, regally wafted-over
by wisps representing nothing.
Sure meant something once. Shored-up words
safely shelved away,
unclaimed and unlikely to be retrieved
by those under the mist
nor those traversing the results, treading lightly –
‘Let’s not talk about this anymore.’

Speak

Speak! he spoke, And I will salvage those sad remains.
The bereaved listened to the ravings of one not right in his mind,
Shaking their heads. For surely, these shore-washed were not remains.
Life would return. Legacy could bide its time. Their hopes were just lying in wait.


Speak! the challenger spoke. And I will sanctify their memory.
They stayed mum. For memory was defeat, that last maggot’s meal.


Speak! the death-bringer dared them.
The stalwart stayed their course through the storm-words.
For what fool would falter and allow the fallen their grave?


Why won’t you speak? he wailed with war-torn eyes.
The algae-covered rose in answer and advanced.

Revisiting Kinfla River

Once more at the river
that leads out of here
Deceptively silent

How we used to wonder
What use is a river
Surrounded by ocean?

Now it offers safety
that we used to scorn
Reckless days

An old beggar sitting
Feeding the sea birds
today’s bread

Surrounding shorelines
Littered with harbours
Mid-goals of longing

To be lost out once more
But these days we know:
One’d be lost forever

To unknow it then
Once more scorn the safety
To wish to be lost

From an anonymous former admirer to Merinne, who did not get to be anonymous

Your golden tresses spun like yarn,
Much like the yarn you spun me,
Are still found scattered in the barn
Now, Lady, that you shun me.

How sweet to wrap them ‘round my fingers,
As you had me, in those days,
But bitterness is all that lingers
In the fading summer haze.

The eye grown more discerning must
Recant what once it saw,
For even gold must turn to dust,
Or in this case to straw.

Freedom of Dust

High-heralded change – hunting ground of shift-weavers.
The future-devourer wanders. Beware – of the warnings.
Anxiously gripping the end – the anchorers watch
As their rags unravel – ribbons in the dust.
Beware of their warnings – for why? Who gains?
Let the loom-torcher stroll – and lift the fate-burden.
Concede the ground gladly – while the dust gathers.

Call of Home

The wheat sways in the summer wind – no waves to crash no more
Fatigued, I can find solace here – this field shall be my shore
This craven heeds the call of home – carrying but my fear
All’s tranquil, tendrils rising – ‘tis only a wheat’s ear

Society

Crowded silence
of a sole lantern
in the wood

Swarmed by moths
stalked by trees
exhaustible
eternal

Flickering invitation
host of the discourse
of whirring wings

Smoke, the end’s bell
flame sundered
society scattered

But waiting for the wings’ return,
the trees
still stalking

Watching in the dark
for those trapped
in the discourse