Tuesday, December 31, 2013


Through the mists of time
I spy the silvery-waters of Avalon.
The lake-lady's white arm
risen like the neck of a swan.
In her fist King Arthur's sword.
Water-nymph or mermaid found my lord?

Mare, as if shorn
of magic-horn,
seeks stallion
as her unicorn.

Fairytale romance.
Go hoof it, prance
across dewy-fields
in sure rosy-dawn.

A Roman fort stood upon Huntcliff,
its watchtowers far above the sea.
A devil that gave its name to Hob Hill
was not good or welcomed company.
But time and tide sweep men away,
even the children who in their shadows play.

There in the Valley Garden
by the Monkey Puzzle tree,
outside the tea-shop
people drank cups of tea.

Upon the leafless lawn
(apart from leaves of grass !)
we, girl, took a table,
Yorkshire lad and his lass.

Was it a chimps tea-party
like they have at the zoo?
The sun tipping his tophat
up there in the clear blue.

How fitting that Fetter Lane
could be taken as Manacle
in the minds of those lived there
and became radical.

The poet Blake was familiar
with the Lane and Tyburn's gallows-tree.
Newgate Prison, the Thames River
stinking and snaking out to sea.
The far too rich, the far too poor,
the hungry knocking at hunger's door.

It has been said that power corrupts,
and total power corrupts totally.
To put total power in the hands of one,
he'll think himself a divinity.
We've had the divine rights of kings,
and something like it with dictators.
There are also the tiny tyrants.
Bullies who seek higher status.

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