Erosion

The sandstone steps are worn cradle smooth

by the centuries’ tread of the clock winder.

But cobwebs have gathered in the silent

spiralled gloom since he had his stroke

and no-one could be found to take over -

no-one reliable anyway, save a stranger

who studies the new self winding mechanism

with a dubious nod to a small boy at his side

in a starched surplice, yawning a shiver because

there’s no organ to pump, and no rope to pull

since the crack appeared in the tenor bell which

won’t get repaired, because the new-comers

don’t like the din. They see it all as clearly

as a clump of mistletoe that emerges amongst the

high boughs when autumn leaves are shed.

The clock still runs, but the crib is deserted.

John H Davies

19th March 2011

Libya UN Resolution 1973

Couldn’t we resolve

not to get involved,

so we might feel absolved

from attempts to dissolve

something that ought to evolve

without our resolve?

John H Davies

18th March 2011 

Blot on the landscape

I saw a blue dog once,

outside a factory in Gujarat.

The factory gate was kept

closed, my host said,

because all the men inside

were blue as well.

John H Davies

17th March 2011 

Quantitative Measures

We all have our moments;

whether fuelled by frustration

or filled with good intent,

sometimes ending in elation

but more likely discontent;

we all have our moments.

John H Davies

16th March 2011 

Peripheral

I wish I didn’t know

how far it is

to the nearest star,

or that it would take

our fastest craft 50,000 years

to get there.

I wish I hadn’t learnt

that there are 400 billion

stars in our galaxy

and 500 billion

galaxies to date

that we can estimate.

I wish my horizon

was where the land stops

and the sky starts,

for then I might understand

why everything seems

so important -

the way that animals do;

whose only world

is that within their view.

How I wish I didn’t know

how far it is

to the nearest star.

John H Davies

15th March 2011 

Friend or faux

When visiting my grandmother

I always hunted for the fox stole

in her wardrobe.

It smelt old fashioned and musty

with a hint of lavender

as I buried my nose deep

in the soft fur.

I never saw her wear it

except in black and white photographs,

and such things were long since

out of fashion, as we slid

into the synthetic age

and complained how cruel it was

farming animals to keep warm,

even though there was an awkward ring

of authenticity we chose to ignore,

(and it was alright to grow animals

to eat of course.)

Until the oil began to run short

and the cry went up

for renewable alternatives

and someone dared to come out

of the musty old closet and suggest

that it hadn’t been such a bad idea

after all.

John H Davies

14th March 2011 

Throwing Stones

People sniff

when Colonel Gaddafi

offers $400

to anyone who

supports him.

But those in

glass houses…

Gordon Brown

called them

Tax Credits.

John H Davies

13th March 2011