Simon P Walker

It is, after all, a strange enigma how,
Given a condition of comfort unfamiliar
To empires, ages and peoples past,
And elsewhere
We, here, and now
Row, and find our cuisine tasteless.

It is not, after all, for want of fancy that
Our imaginings are fed and fantasies fulfilled,
Fickle dreams and palimpsests,
Scribbled hurriedly
Over previous revisions
Failing, as always, to meet the hope invested.

So, who, then, cast the spell
And what kind of magic is this
That binds blue rinses and aspiring suits
In a Holy Grail of possessive bliss?

Who then waved the wand
And who designed the dream
That occupies the dozing mind
Slumbering in the Lethe stream?

And to whom do we owe
This release of miasma
Authorized and inhaled to render
Conscience numb, our pain, a plaster?

Of course, the source of it is found
Within the tiny universe inside
Each man, a world of evil,
Committed
Ruthless and intent
Upon protecting and projecting
Its persona on the world.

Of course, the source is not so glib
To risk all but the merest peep
Behind the set of masks
Complete,
perfected, and performing
Easily a plethora of roles,
Persuading those to be convinced.
 
What price we pay
To lose out way, mistaking
Tabloid glitz for lasting tribute,
Preening our plumes
For a pawing press.

Such strutting,
Though we see it not,
Mocks our vain pretence, unmasks
The hollow that’s behind the show
Exposing greedy voids inside.

The final stage is set for an act
Of deteriorating shambles,
In a scene unscripted,
With a cast of premadonnas,
After a poor performance,
In a backstreet venue,
Hailed by the critics
As a show best cut short.

The final stage is set and hope
Of some redemption
In the confusing mist
With some intervention or other
After broken imprecation
In a season of drought
Calls the lost
To a new beginning.

And visions of another day, another
Way and truth, haunt and enchant
And run like rain drops down
The dirty pain and behind,
The seagull cries and the breeze dries
The salt upon our skin and sand grains
Fill our shoes and towels wrap
Little bodies shivering, tight and warm.
And buckets spill and pebbles fill
And shovels dig and fingers draw
A train track in the sand
And once again the bitter ape
Becomes the child again and
Strong arms enfold our frame
And utter in the silence
The word we die to hear.

Simon Walker
July 2001