Aaaarrrkkk!!!
Crow the black
cawing in the morning
from his lofty perch;
this Summer Solstice
is his alone.
Harbinger of doom
Picker of corpses
Guide to lost souls
Friend to Pagans
Raven’s little brother
descended from Thought and Memory;
who sit upon the shoulders
of the one-eyed god.
They see all
and tell him everything.
Pavements,
spat on.
Statues,
shat on.
Marble and metal heavyweights,
like huge paperweights
Tributes to persons from another age:
forgotten,
except by the pigeons
and their stained reminders
as a burger wrapper takes to the air
and tumbles down the street
in a rustle
amid the bustle
of a city on the move.
In contrast to the statue:
a memory given permanence;
an old campaigner prominence.
But soon it will rain
and extricate it from the excrement
of the ignorant pigeons;
and the crapping crows.
Sun beating, sun shining
People walking, people watching
Trees growing, green leaves
Groundsmen cutting, green grass
Lake lapping, water’s edge
Water sparkling, countless diamonds
Birds singing, birds flying
Ducks swimming, swans snobbing
Violinists playing, Mozart scales
Me sitting, listening
Not speaking, just thinking
Eating lunch in the park
![20140714_135037[1]](https://christopherfarley.files.wordpress.com/2014/07/20140714_1350371.jpg)
Spring morning, spring dawning.
Sparrow, starling, blackbird
in unison calling,
out their names, and
singing loud their songs.
What is the language
of the birds that I hear?
As my love sleeps,
a sleep content
and undisturbed.
Whilst I, I alone
sit with eyes and ears open,
to the coming of the dawn,
as the birds greet the morn
and each other.
“Good morning to you too,”
I say, as I open the window
and breathe in the air,
as yet untouched
by the waking of man
of cars and vans.
Enjoy the moment
though in silence
it not be.
As the break of day
not far away,
has been announced to me.
The lines. So many of them it seems, interconnected and weaving a spider’s web of expression (exhaustion) on my face. My face. My Insomnia. My card. I present me and myself to you, my expression (exhaustion) for you to see. Is it not enough to just get through the day without having killed or been killed, to keep your job, to love your wife/partner/mistress/friends? What does the world want from me at this hour – always? Why does it not let me sleep?
We went through the war, Baby. Almost 15 years, you and I. Our war. Troughs deep as trenches, trapping body, poison, blood but offering shelter. A temporary escape? Choose the sniper’s bullet or machine-gun mow-down. The result’s the same. Bleeding, twitching body on the ground. Life-draining.
The war Baby. Those truces. Those long (but not long forgotten) truces. Not a trough or trench in sight. Poppy-field sunrise. Blackbird reveille. No scars, bullet wounds or barbed-wire kisses. Just us: and the world. When did you realise that Baby? Just us.
What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.
Old Birdman sits and stares
Squinting in the sun
The sparrows eagerly await the moment
when he
Opens the white paper bag
placed upon his lap
They know him now
and his eating habits.
The bag rustles
He looks inside
No smile lights his face
as he takes out
the sandwich
Which he will share
They gather around his feet
never coming too close
awaiting the moment
he eats and drops the crumbs
He watches the pigeons on the grass
fed fat from passers-by
He hopes they stay where they are
and not chase his sparrows away.
My Words, My World 