HEAVY HORSES

... And The Mouse Police Never Sleeps

Muscled, black with steel-green eye 
swishing through the rye grass 
with thoughts of mouse-and-apple pie. 
Tail balancing at half-mast. 
...And the mouse police never sleeps 
lying in the cherry tree. 
Savage bed foot-warmer of purest feline ancestry. 
Look out, little furry folk! 
He's the all-night working cat. 
Eats but one in every ten 
leaves the others on the mat. 
...And the mouse police never sleeps 
waiting by the cellar door. 
Window-box town crier; 
birth and death registrar. 
With claws that rake a furrow red 
licensed to multilate. 
From warm milk on a lazy day 
to dawn patrol on hungry hate. 
...No, the mouse police never sleeps 
climbing on the ivy. 
Windy roof-top weathercock. 
Warm-blooded night on a cold tile. 

Acres Wild

I'll make love to you 
in all good places 
under black mountains 
in open spaces. 
By deep brown rivers 
that slither darkly 
through far marches 
where the blue hare races. 
Come with me to the Winged Isle 
northern father's western child. 
Where the dance of ages is playing still 
through far marches of acres wild. 
I'll make love to you 
in narrow side streets 
with shuttered windows, 
crumbling chimneys. 
Come with me to the weary town 
discos silent under tiles 
that slide from roof-tops, scatter softly 
on concrete marches of acres wild. 
By red bricks pointed 
with cement fingers 
Flaking damply from sagging shoulders. 
Come with me to the Winged Isle 
northern father's western child. 
Where the dance of ages is playing still 
through far marches of acres wild. 

No Lullaby

Keep your eyes open and prick up your ears 
rehearse your loudest cry. 
There's folk out there who would do you harm 
so I'll sing you no lullaby. 
There's a lock on the window; there's a chain on the door: 
a big dog in the hall. 
But there's dragons and beasties out there in the night 
to snatch you if you fall. 
So come out fighting with your rattle in hand. 
Thrust and parry. Light 
a match to catch the devil's eye. Bring 
a cross of fire to the fight. 
And let no sleep bring false relief 
from the tension of the fray. 
Come wake the dead with the scream of life. 
Do battle with ghosts at play. 
Gather your toys at the call-to-arms 
and swing your big bear down. 
Upon our necks when we come to set 
you sleeping safe and sound. 
It's as well we tell no lie 
to chase the face that cries. 
And little birds can't fly 
so keep an open eye. 
It's as well we tell no lie 
so I'll sing you no lullaby. 

Moths

The leaded window opened 
to move the dancing candle flame 
And the first Moths of summer 
suicidal came, suicidal came. 
And a new breeze chattered 
in its May-bud tenderness, 
Sending water-lillies sailing 
as she turned to get undressed. 
And the long night awakened 
and we soared on powdered wings, 
Circling our tomorrows 
in the wary month of Spring. 
Chasing shadows slipping 
in a magic lantern slide, 
Creatures of the candle 
on a night-light-ride. 
Dipping and weaving 
Flutter through the golden needle's eye 
in our haystack madness. 
Butterfly-stroking on a Spring-tide high. 
Life's too long (as the Lemming said) 
as the candle burned and the Moths were wed. 
And we'll all burn together as the wick grows higher 
but before the candle's dead. 
The leaded window opened 
to move the dancing candle flame. 
And the first moths of summer 
suicidal came, oh, suicidal came. 
To join in the worship 
of the light that never dies 
in a moment's reflection 
of two moths spinning in her eyes. 

Journeyman

Spine-tingling railway sleepers 
Sleepy houses lying four-square and firm 
Orange beams divide the darkness 
Rumbling fit to turn the waking worm. 
Sliding through Victorian tunnels 
where green moss oozes from the pores. 
Dull echoes from the wet embankments 
Battlefield allotments. Fresh open sores. 
In late night commuter madness 
Double-locked black briefcase on the floor 
like a faithful dog with master 
sleeping in the draught beside the carriage door. 
To each Journeyman his own home-coming 
Cold supper nearing with each station stop 
Frosty flakes on empty platforms 
Fireside slippers waiting. Flip. Flop. 
Journeyman night-tripping on the late fantasic 
Too late to stop for tea at Gerard's Cross 
and hear the soft shoes on the footbridge shuffle 
as the wheels turn biting on the midnight frost. 
On the late commuter special 
Carriage lights that flicker, fade and die 
Howling into hollow blackness 
Dusky diesel shudders in full cry. 
Down redundant morning papers 
Abandon crosswords with a cough 
Stationmaster in his wisdom 
told the guard to turn the heating off. 

Rover

I chase your every footstep 
and I follow every whim. 
When you call the tune I'm ready 
to strike up the battle hymn. 
My lady of the meadows 
My comber of the beach 
You've thrown the stick for your dog's trick 
but it's floating out of reach. 
The long road is a rainbow and the pot of gold lies there. 
So slip the chain and I'm off again 
You'll find me everywhere. I'm a Rover. 
As the robin craves the summer 
to hide his smock of red, 
I need the pillow of your hair 
in which to hide my head. 
I'm simple in my sadness, 
resourceful in remorse. 
Then I'm down straining at the lead 
holding on a windward course. 
Strip me from the bundle 
of balloons at every fair: 
colourful and carefree 
Designed to make you stare. 
But I'm lost and I'm losing 
the thread that holds me down. 
And I'm up hot and rising 
in the lights of every town. 

One Brown Mouse

Smile your little smile take some tea with me awhile. 
Brush away that black cloud from your shoulder. 
Twitch your whiskers. Feel that you're really real. 
Another tea-time another day older. 
Puff warm breath on your tiny hands. 
You wish you were a man 
who every day can turn another page. 
Behind your glass you sit and look 
at my ever-open book: 
One brown mouse sitting in a cage. 
Do you wonder if I really care for you, 
Am I just the company you keep? 
Which one of us exercises on the old treadmill, 
Who hides his head, pretending to sleep? 
Smile your little smile take some tea with me awhile. 
And every day we'll turn another page. 
Behind our glass we'll sit and look 
at our ever-open book: 
One brown mouse sitting in a cage. 

Heavy Horses

Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust, 
An October's day, towards evening, 
Sweat embossed veins standing proud to the plough, 
Salt on a deep chest seasoning. 
Last of the line at an honest day's toil, 
Turning the deep sod under, 
Flint at the fetlock, chasing the bone, 
Flies at the nostrils plunder. 
The Suffolk, the Clydesdale, the Percheron Vie 
with the Shire on his feathers floating. 
Hauling soft timber into the dusk 
to bed on a warm straw coating. 
Heavy Horses, move the land under me. 
Behind the plough gliding slipping and sliding free. 
Now you're down to the few 
And there's no work to do: 
The tractor's on its way. 
Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seed 
to keep the old line going. 
And we'll stand you abreast at the back of the wood 
behind the young trees growing. 
To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth, 
and your eighteen hands at the shoulder. 
And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry 
and the nights are seen to draw colder 
they'll beg for your strength, your gentle power 
your noble grace and your bearing. 
And you'll strain once again to the sound of the gulls 
in the wake of the deep plough, sharing. 
Standing like tanks on the brow of the hill 
Up into the cold wind facing 
In stiff battle harness, chained to the world 
Against the low sun racing. 
Bring me a wheel of oaken wood 
A rein of polished leather 
A Heavy Horse and a tumbling sky 
Brewing heavy weather. 
Bring a song for the evening 
Clean brass to flash the dawn 
across these acres glistening 
like dew on a carpet lawn. 
In these dark towns folk lie sleeping 
as the heavy horses thunder by 
to wake the dying city 
with the living horseman's cry. 
At once the old hands quicken, 
bring pick and wisp and curry comb, 
thrill to the sound of all 
the heavy horses coming home. 

Weathercock

Good morning Weathercock: 
How did you fare last night? 
Did the cold wind bite you, 
did you face up to the fright 
When the leaves spin from October 
and whip around your tail? 
Did you shake from the blast, 
did you shiver through the gale? 
Give us direction; the best of goodwill, 
Put us in touch with fair winds. 
Sing to us softly, hum evening's song. 
Tell us what the blacksmith has done for you. 
Do you simply reflect changes 
in the patterns of the sky, 
Or is it true to say the weather heeds 
the twinkle in your eye? 
Do you fight the rush of winter; 
do you hold snowflakes at bay? 
Do you lift the dawn sun from the fields 
and help him on his way? 
Good morning Weathercock: make this day bright. 
Put us in touch with your fair winds. 
Sing to us softly, hum evening's song. 
Point the way to better days we can share with you.