CLOCKING OFF

Yesterday's clock change for the start of British Summer Time prompted me to post this time-related rhyming poem, The Clock. 

Coincidentally, yesterday, whilst visiting St Peter Port, 'Town' as we islanders generally refer to it, I noticed that the Church clock had stopped.

THE CLOCK

Its hands no longer mark the hour

and only bats share the clock tower

with pigeons nowadays because

the mechanism, plagued by flaws,

has quit: 

but still time slips away

despite an absence of display.

Twice daily, 

its clock-face records

the time correctly and accords

with multitudes of other clocks:

thus it is able to outfox

a stranger, taken unawares,

who does not know the timepiece errs.

But we, the locals here, all know

the clock is neither fast or slow

and that the time, due to neglect,

is only, by default, correct.

DOG TRACKS

The dog, often referred to as man’s best friend, is derived from an ancient, extinct wolf, and the modern wolf is the dog's nearest living relative. It was the first species to be domesticated by hunter–gatherers over 15,000 years ago.

JAKE

Jake, my dog, though canine-brained

and limited, has been well trained:

when I say sit-boy, sit he does,

when told to beg, he lifts his paws;

roll over, fetch, commands like that

denote that he is dog not cat. 

What strange ancestor, long ago,

accepted man as friend not foe?

What breed of man could conquer fear

and bear to have a wolf come near?

His sense of smell, his alphabet,

helps him distinguish treat from threat.

With no thoughts of mortality,

he is more fortunate than me.

A good companion, loyal, true,

content with an old shoe to chew,

he’ll wait for me for hours on end

and, daily, strive to comprehend

remorseful words that I address

to him expecting nothing less

than the discretion of a priest,

omerta, at the very least.

THE FIRST CUT IS THE DEEPEST

This short, rhyming poem was written a year ago when a newly-arrived neighbour decided to remove a long-established tree that bordered our garden. 

This happened without forewarning and was deeply upsetting, not only for selfish reasons (the tree was a haven for our avian visitors) but because Guernsey has comparatively few trees and can ill afford to lose any more.

THE TREE

The tree the chainsaws felled today

was host to birds, a home to those

that shunned the nesting box or bush.        

They will adapt, no doubt, they may

seek a new billet, I suppose,

but we will miss them, blackbird, thrush.

IN THE SAME BOAT

With the Russian-Ukraine war in the headlines daily and a refugee crisis growing by the hour, it seems timely to revisit a poem written a few years ago about those who risk their lives each day in an attempt to reach Europe via the perilous crossing from Africa.

FLOTSAM

The sea does not want her.

It takes the others:

her, it discards

half-dead on shingle-sand,

the reek of salty fear

on brown skin.

 

Gulls shriek 

and quarrel overhead.

She lies face down

barely breathing,

a human starfish,

one black asterisk

referencing nothing.

Cruciform

on wet shingle,

she counts her stations:

hunger, terror, flight, 

abuse, exploitation, 

a merciless sea 

crossed.

A too-small boat,

the huddled shapes,

fear, their common bond.

A heavy night-sky

bearing down.

Waves like white fists

against the hull.

                                                                       

Land 

that does not want her

blurs like a mirage:

a half-moon cove, 

gaunt trees 

aligned like bars,

European houses.                          

She claws wet gravel,

draws herself

to her knees, 

kneels to vomit.

Along the beach,

relentlessly,

policemen come.