TWO KINDS OF ISOLATION

There is immense appeal in wild, remote places and the almost-silence to be found there. For a fugitive from the frenzied jabber of modern life there is no better sanctuary. 

MOOR PONIES

The path, that winds its way as though by chance,
leads to a blue-green, sweeping, verdant plain,
coarse heather and an unexpected lough
where swans, like hawthorn blossoms, dreaming, drift. 

Here, rock and weathered boulders form a realm
where nothing dwells that has not earned its place
where day and night, like lovers, intertwine
and season into season gently slips. 
Bold standing stones, with ancient runes inscribed,
face four wild winds to boldly outwit time
while stunted trees, distorted into shapes,
unnatural, cling to the earth and scream 
like wailing ghosts in blackened widows’ lace
for all the speechless sadness of the world.

Moor ponies watch, with grey, impassive eyes,
the hawk that circles slowly like a god
high in his realm of silence, stark, sublime,
untouchable, impossibly remote.

They bow their heads, as though in reverence,
for fear that god, ignored, might take offense.


BONUS TRACK

 

 









PSYCHIC EYE
 
I read the sign and climb a stair.
The office door is smokey glass.
Inside a radio plays jazz.
I go in. He points to a chair.
He’s shabby but he don’t look dumb.
His voice is booze and cigarettes:
a weary voice, full of regrets.
A gumshoe, laid back, chewing gum.
     
I say, Man, you’re a Psychic Eye:
I got a problem, something’s changed.
It’s like the whole world’s rearranged,
gone crazy but I don’t know why.
When joshing with my buddy, Pat,
there was a mishap with a gun:
the pistol was a loaded one.
Things turned peculiar after that.
Down at the pool room, I’m ignored.
Guys talk and laugh like I’m not there:
goddam invisible, I swear.
I was their pal once: now they’re bored.
I crack a joke. They look elsewhere. 
I shout: Hey Guys! They just don’t hear.
I ask for whiskey or a beer:
the barman gives me a blank stare.

The psychic nods. I tell him this:
I visited my gal today:
she looked right through me, turned away
when I leaned forward for a kiss.
     
He lights a smoke, says: Some survive
a bullet from a careless gun,
a lucky few, but you’re not one.
Son, you’re a ghost. You ain’t alive.
I’m psychic so I see a bit,
the gumshoe gives me this critique:
For you, the future’s looking bleak.
You’re dead. You gotta live with it.