to them just not allowed – the cliché marks the spot.
Pierce horns impale,
they face-shrink ice-pick longsword stab –
call barely drill-scare macula orbit black-holes,
me, my lonely well.
Their wind-torn spume – spray naughty wee,
hoover-duty when they’re gone.
They felt the too-used felt-tip scrub adds vigour, then spilt milk,
as told them would and tell them will,
but blaming still the same.
Only two-bird-time before the cartoon call,
planned practice piece too far.
Anyway, always subjects change, while they build the space,
fears from delights, few keep their place,
though don’t and dirt and pretty things loom loud,
cave paint translates to page.
Crosspatch quilt-drape screens who-knows-what
shade hidden, wraithing wight.
Their lawless itinerant roaming restless floats
grounded in unknown mares,
choker beads, flame tyre torque, pink plastic fun,
string-theory chain, tightening or swing.
Light to dark traversing day, or light awaiting grey?
The zoo, barred place for exactitude;
fingers tell what mind-eyes see.
Stephen Kingsnorth, 67, is retired from ministry in the Methodist Church, living in north Wales. (He was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease five years ago, and has been writing poetry for some 9 months.)