For the world in which the wolf may roam,
remember home
is where you left it,
but also the home-made can be anywhere
and anything you want it to be.
Take the year, a month, a moment,
or every so often raise a glass to the past
that put you where you are now
and only come back when the time is right.
You have always been a wolf,
you are the pride in us all,
your fur unbroken, bristles,
black and claws grab the opportunity ahead
It’s far too windy to wear a trilby.
It’s far too cold to go out without a thick woolly.
Too go outside without a heavy coat is considered unseemly,
in weather most foul, and insanity not to be dressed fully.
To wear shoes full of holes and let the rain soak through,
would surely have your friends comment about your soul.
To wear gloves of any material, helpful to keep fingers from turning blue,
is just sensible when having to leave the house for a stroll.
We don’t get along, we never really have.
I hate the thought of giving into Morpheus’ seduction
and the sound of a thousand yawns and inevitable,
“It’s Bed Time”, joyfully shouted as the radio
was switched off with glee, just as I was listening
to some news from a far off place, or the glimmer
of a new song that had caught my ear, all cut off in their prime
and with accompanying whine “Why aren’t you tired?”
Of course I am tired, for over forty years I have been shattered,
I remember the last time I saw the scrawled graffiti on the storm drain wall.
Although it was written with an uncomfortable hand,
its message would make an angel weep in frustration
and the effect it had on me was to change things for a while.
I would hide in that drain pipe when times got rough,
when thinking in my room about events and others
words upon my soul and mine, perhaps more hurtful,
that would scar their heart and have me scar my arms.
Crossing the Tamar Bridge brings a sense of polite revolution,
a feeling of identity regained, no matter how mixed or diluted
the poetic blood has become, for no-one should ever 100 percent solution
or wrap the flag of choice around cold shoulders when it is suited.
The black background holding the white cross aloft
held high by a Kernow sister dressed in a blue dress
whipped up by an Atlantic wind so soft
is the closest I come to holding up a banner or crest.
As you watch the news night after night,
the small tremble of fear they put in the voice of the ageing reporter
as they present their slant on the events,
that make us read their sister papers in grim earnest over
a badly presented cup of coffee, foaming
at the mouth as the headline is designed to irk, cajole
and inwardly terrify…
That the news, the encompassing truth, run by the moral guardians
who defend their freedom of speech
but who will gladly come knocking
with their size nine hob nail boots,
The British oak may fill my head with images of sturdy reliability,
the sheer strength of will and powerful robustness
to ever bow to the pressure of a thousand muscular gales
or the clambering and kicking of a million children’s feet
as they laugh and swing off branches replete with green lush leaves;
is one that I try to emulate in my soul,
but I know I am more like my innocent favourite
that of the sprawling, myopic, maudlin, mysterious and disapproving
Willow tree.
I fell for the drooping wonder
I find myself dreaming about you every night.
The cruelty of finding you as I sit in fat, tattered Middle age
Rather than in the prime of vigour and resplendent in sight
Only makes me want to be in your harbour and landing stage.
In my youth I fantasised about others, but only one turned
My head as much as you, for that was built upon bright lights
And wild excess that all crackled through the night as passion burned
But inevitably we parted, not staying together, try as we might.
Have you broken yours yet?
Have you misplaced the list of items neatly written out,
first in soft lined pencil, then set in stone in unforgiving ink
and underscored in black lipstick with a faint damned kiss
or with the blood of a passing forethought that strayed too close to the
edge?
This list, did it contain anything that you truly wanted to do or be
or better still, to achieve something in which others
would benefit from without ever knowing it was you
that set them on the road to redemption?
Should I compare you to harridan hag of a winter’s day?
For you are the television screens celebrity whore,
Who people urge others on to detest what you say
Because your mealy brown nosed mouth knows no common decent law.
The papers are full of your tripe, belly pork and pock marked offal
And the stuffing, well best left to the imagination
Of the viewer who glances with excited glee at your high pitch waffle
At your endless diatribes set to cause expected squeal and harmfully stun.