a sort of cemetery

ruins are not absent they are a normal part
of this grave landscape under those great trees
lie so many secrets more than a dog has fleas
the swallows that so blithely swoop and dart
have an old mission this is where they start
on a long journey far from winds that freeze
meanwhile we note the ones upon their knees
appellants to the court of an absent heart
to speak of ruins is not to speak of age not old
these stones this coin fell from the purse
of a woman who's still fresh in her grave
for all this heat that history's far too cold
we can't ignore the message nor the curse
the trees are rooted on the bones of slaves

ancient history

they make excuses for the way things ran
no one knew better in those dismal days
we have to take account of ancient ways
we only do the things we know we can
it's not as though there were some secret plan
to break those hearts there was no evil ban
on silence the characters in smart plays
were never literal that's the word that slays
woman and daughter the boy-child and man
truth is so simple once they were on top
and that was nature that was just the manner
that life had structured go talk to the wall
if you think you are some sort of pc cop
the rules came down from the great divine planner
all this is shouted and then comes the fall

thinking of commencement

each name is called in turn and then they pass
the lies they told the little fun each had
the ones who worked at being good the bad
each takes their steps on imitation grass
and up the stairs this is their final class
the last formal test each of them hotly clad
in cap and gown we watch each lass and lad
be singled out then merge back in the mass
let us not be too hasty they're all bold
ready to face the world or so they think
we know that most will truly make the try
at conquering life and then they will grow old
some will keep hope while others turn to drink
but right now they all cheer and parents cry

let symbols clash

not much is known of where the answers went
that shouldn't worry for the questions fail
this afternoon the meanings are all spent

from each of us the statement has been sent
the day is clear the faces rather pale
not much is known of where the answers went

the tree was straight but now the branch is bent
the cheque has cleared that was long in the mail
this afternoon the meanings are all spent

not one who builds but will at last relent
still we don't know what's measured in the scale
not much is known of where the answers went

the hottest air doesn't just go out the vent
to get it right means centring the long nail
this afternoon the meanings are all spent

still someone must have realised what was meant
the symbols aren't expressed in a long wail
not much is known of where the answers went
this afternoon the meanings are all spent

to undo the folded lie

in any honest measure we will tread the planks
our hopes and dreams invested in the tone
for these small mercies we give many thanks

we set our plans out and dress the ranks
each of us confronts the dark silent and alone
in any honest measure we will tread the planks

the pursuers are coming up right on our flanks
our hearts as slow today and heavier than stone
for these small mercies we give many thanks

our brand new masters have sent in the tanks
each soul is now defined as a free-fire zone
in any honest measure we will tread the planks

pain in the gut means we must move our shanks
the music must be played above each groan
for these small mercies we give many thanks

our lives have been held hostage by the banks
we give them everything down to the bone
in any honest measure we will tread the planks
for these small mercies we give many thanks

a long sigh

not to wait but work
that is the only way of it
duty summons us

outside the blue sky
tells us another story
joy in the sunlight

this is the turning
between spring and summer might
human the power

mapping hell

there's no room for action and still less for thought
the place we settle down in is never truly home
we face the constant tension between is and ought

through heavy seas and through the bitter foam
we make our way and plan to tell our tales
no one but us should be allowed to roam

far out at sea we've seen the play of whales
the spouts are joyful and the waves not steep
what we expect may still be though it fails

names and addresses are the things we'll keep
not one of us can name the truths of hope
still we must make some hay before we sleep

the work we do will pull some up the slope
to name our terrors does not make them flee
we find ourselves with time that's not like rope

we can't play out the things that we might see
not one of us can say that we've been pure
the ocean comes and will not let things be

those who will come may not so long endure
they'll fill their pockets with the brightest stones
and then will vanish in a moment to be sure

the one who sharpens knives the one who hones
both blade and argument till they're so sharp
they'll cut the skin and cut right through the bones

we cover all the field with cloth and tarp
no ray of light will enter till we're done
meanwhile the lady plays upon her harp

the largest herds will down to the shore run
without the least doubt we'll be told what's true
and then we'll flee from the heat of a may sun

we've done our jobs there's nothing we could rue
but still we worry and we search the skies
for any helpful omen any change in the old view

about the corpse there always will be flies
but that's not our problem now we've got the light
truth comes to us well guarded by our lies

the day must fade and we must face the night
there's nothing we might do to end these jars
our hearts are high we will not now take fright

above our heads we see the summer stars