Revelations

What an ingrate! Reincarnate

suffering in a desert state!

Barmy am I, sainted friend?

I am not the one to wend

My Way to Patmos site, nor climb

up cliffs to sit there, stare, and rhyme

a dotty ditty on the Holy

Book of See-It-All.  I'm solely

into sifting sand between My Toes

when I'm on vac. Look, there it goes!

Whoopsa! Wheeee!  I have more fun

building My Castles in the sun.

Now, who but you could say that's mad?

D'you really think, my haloed cad,

that I’m, like you, a Silly Sod?

Be careful, John,

Your Better,

God

Looking up

The mountains are sharp in clear air,

angles simple in snow above the valley’s 

folded fields, their contours gone

under layers laid on by routine storms.

Your daughter screams unshawled

in my strange arms, her face

a mess of tears and creases

older than we are now.

Her anger is mobile, jagged

around the room, as jutting

uplands beyond her temper

their mantled view.

Battersea Fields

Do not forget me, Battersea fields,

in the park where grass

was ankle high and seed heads

crushed in the hand

sweetened the morning air

heavy with fat smells

from candle works,

where each green blade

seemed softer under fingers

than fine lawns did years on

at the north end of the staling city.

Do not forget me, Battersea streets,

whose gutters were cobbled,

grouted with gravel, dust

where summer-sole shoes

curved over their hunch, bent

unsteady ankles as mud

from the ‘mere slipped underfoot

and matchbox boats in rain

swirled slowly by sweet wrappers

down drains through whose wide grids

slopped childhood lives.

So, I can turn to the place

where, if I am not wiser now,

I still feel strong,

the last of your grass in my hands,

your cobbles under my feet.