back at work

not too soon the warnings of fresh cold
the winter comes upon us in a rush
yet here we still have one moment of hush
while the low sky seems grey and old
the sheep have not come back into the fold
outside the grass no longer green and lush
the heavy air my oppressed sense will crush
and nothing seems to flourish but the mould
still beyond pain the news is not all bad
changes begin and who knows where they'll lead
not long before the days again are bright
the weight of duty does not make me sad
instead i seek the pleasure in the deed
there is much time before the return of night

the day seems old

in the pale light no shadows can be seen
the sun is densely wreathed by a thick cloud
only the music seems alert and keen

with little wind the thin trees do not lean
against each other in their little crowd
in the pale light no shadows can be seen

this weather is the kind that aches the spleen
we pass each other with our bodies bowed
only the music seems alert and keen

not noble but submissive is our mien
on this dull day a fool could not be proud
in the pale light no shadows can be seen

even the grass has turned a pallid green
this day we feel was made to wear a shroud
only the music seems alert and keen

the lethargy's not abolished by caffeine
constricted are the limits of the allowed
in the pale light no shadows can be seen
only the music seems alert and keen

only the numbers ever change

the factor that's not included in the account
is a small number but means quite a lot
is life and hope and pain and all forgot
and larger than the principal is its amount
we could in justice simply do a count
and see fall into place each single dot
the pattern clean not even the least blot
while second by second the digits mount
almost to the stars or so the numbers seem
that are observed by all the grey-faced men
whose job it is to see all figures match
even in their plain eyes there is a gleam
at seeing how the values combine again
into a hook that will the punter catch

forty years on -- after novoneyra

the birds that marked your death were shrieking bats
we might not see their like for a whole year
their voices gave us the news that we did fear
of heroes turned up dead after the last combats
brave men despised far worse than stinking rats
youth charm and hope that filled the mountain air
lie dead and bloody now beyond all human care
while the nameless hunter with his masters chats
heroes die like ordinary men the andes did not sink
when you stopped breathing though overhead the birds
chant lamentation for the passing of their kind
we know that afterwards vast seas of purple ink
will be expended over you that a new war of words
will explode in your name as you lie dumb and blind

having a clue

where the answer is not simply given
but taken almost by brute force
things departed from the normal course
reality and dream suddenly riven
by those who had not long striven
with untrammelled fury no remorse
in their hearts lacking all source
desperately desiring to be forgiven
the turn that comes at the road's end
is half-expected but every surprise
is treasured even by the haughty
the voltaic surge at the final bend
seen only by those folk with open eyes
almost a shock but never really naughty

anticipation

new stories for old this pattern takes us places
familiar and strange the day could have been worse
but no one came prepared with book and verse
and tomorrow we know we will start the old races
tempted though we are just to kick over the traces
dismiss the nonsense with a loud sharp curse
and flee but we need to put money in the purse
and keep on smiling with these tired old faces
i have to remember what is in which file
what names fit faces and what faces return
to reanimate the struggle all that is old renews
and we will keep on going for another while
and hope that minds will one of these days burn
with desire to know and see some stranger views