Spring Poem

The decapitated mouse head
He left beneath your chair
Signalled the arrival of spring.
Each night he slipped out
Into the balmy red air
Catching the scent of the day
In his skin.
We lay on top of sheets
Expectant and listening
To the sound of new born lambs
Mewing distant in the night.
While the cat,
At the last of his nine lives,
Is loose in the neighbourhood,
Eager with experience,
Tail up, swinging back to us,
With death in his mouth.

 

 

Election

Your teachings have made you calm,
Whenever we talk of politics
You talk of dead animals.
How the oracles split frogs
To wheedle out bad news
And watched the olive sky for birds
To forecast the crop yields
And the warring of islands.

That night the talking persisted
Across the extended networks,
Heavy lidded men heaving
Their solemn heads till dawn,
When, finally we slept,
The television still blaring
The winds of change
Sticking tired looks to our faces.

The following morning
Who knew what it all meant?
When walking out at noon
The glistening road
In the horrendous sun
Became an operating table
Of obsolete animals,
Their most intimate entrails
Ugly truths still to come.

 

 

Observing One Who Prays

You kneel at  the bed,
With pursed lips,
Like a child listening
At the edge of woods.

You mistake the wind
For the sound of spirits.
You see your prayer
Descending peaks

Through storms and rain
And endless oceans.
Your faith is still intact,
Patient as a widow,

Who burns the candle
On the nights shore,
Awaiting news
From the world’s end.

 

 

Van Gogh In Auvers-sur-Oise

The silhouetted figure
Moved towards them,
God like, the sower
Stepping from the sun.

His queer frame
Stranger than usual,
A knotted posture
As if twisted from wheat.

His hands buried deep
In his working jacket,
Where the breast
Clotted with blood.

His expression stayed curious,
One ear still to the wind,
Like a dog ready for flight,
A walking open wound.