Simon P Walker

Dawn slides and another day
Peels back its eye, drawing back the sleepy lid
Of heart and silence. Across the water
A body slumbers, where the worn cliffs
Line the mouth, and the slow beach
Sucks its first drink of light and opportunity
And the hooded sky
Prepares for sleep and aeroplanes.

You are kissed by me, drawn into life by my mouth.
Words heal and die. Old words strew the landscape, now marring
The lines of the old village. Once pristine streets
Gather debris, tossed aside by my careless occupation.
Little heaps mount up, behind the walls
And against the low railings, around the park,
By the lopsided spruce
And the scuffed trunks of the old yews.

The light is young and tired. It has seen it all before.
Hope seeps, not in the flames of despair,
But in the routine decay of imagination, over the years
Leaving only a rumour of a previous rumble of thunder, fading on the air.
The crime is of squandering- certainly of neglect- a sin
Of omission. An absence of attention.
Disregard, whilst at the same time, preoccupation
With all that could be thought and done.
Misplaced energy.

It is not too late. It is not too late, says the robin.
The fragments are here, only cracked. The crystal glass
Was never to bounce, like a cheap plastic trinket.
Look now, here, now- amongst the leaves, in the rustle
Of old memories. Careful now. Like fractured treasure.
Find it. Find it again; do not let the children be cut!
The little children, who hide in the leaves.
The leaves rustle and laugh.

(And) breathe. There is life here. Breathe, before you gasp
Like the suffocating man, choking on some old bone.
The bird whispers and there is magic still in the soil.
The spade hangs, ready to slice the loam, turning it over.
There is life here, and fruit. Seeds as yet unplanted
Promises richer than the dark earth. The dawn sun
Slips beyond the veil, the black beetle
Continues to dig
And gleams iridescent.

August 2006