If I could speak, what would I tell you?

Should I tell of the seasons
                  that have warmed me and cooled me?

Should I tell of the storms
                  that have ravaged my face?

Should I tell of the people
                  who wore skins and used flint?

Should I tell of the men
                  who came on iron rails?

Should I tell of the planets
                  that changed in the heavens?

Should I tell of the stars
                  that stayed with me at night?

Should I tell of the aeons
                  spent longing to move?

Should I tell of the fears
                  that one day I’ll be dust?

If I could speak … what would you I tell?  

Published in Inscape Magazine July 2008.

The Probe

Layers fall from walls like sunburnt skin,
And as with Man’s facades
That cannot be maintained,
They weep their loss and long neglect.

Mosaic shards of sunlight probe the ruin
Yet no clues give hint to what has been,
And the door that once was locked
Perhaps is now become the key?

Speculation’s fancies reign supreme. 

Anno Domini

When the door last closed,
Which Rex or Regina ruled?
Which battles raged and where?
Had Suffrage been born
Or the Atom split?

Had Man beheld his World
From a waterless lunar sea?

Witness

Has it seen both talk and tears
But then … of what and why?
Had plots been hatched and scandal hidden?
Had birth or death been acted out?
Had Poverty been at home,
Starvation its unwelcome guest,
Or had Rank and Plenty
Swelled its timber?
Did it vibrate to Laughter’s timbre
And children’s strident clamour?

Did ever Love shine upon it?

The Closing Hand

Did some infamous hand,
Or perhaps a poet,
Close the door as they walked to fame?
Perhaps some calloused claw
Rasped against its wood
Or maybe it was fingers
That tingled to a petal’s velvet?

Just fantasies,
For still… the hand’s unknown.

Reasons

Was the door closed
On an old life left behind,
A portal to new beginnings,
Or simply on the daily grind?

Was there regret or joy? 

Closure

Not quite tight-closed,
The door invites investigation,
But defies attempts to prise its past,
And so, its prying fruitless,
The defeated Sun moves on …

Yet, still the fancies linger …

Gold of Evening’s gleam
Smudges soft the sunset clouds,
Tempting Night’s embrace;
Nature’s pallet infinite,
Blends Earth with deepening Sky.

See, how side by side,
In post-natal symmetry,
Mother and child rest.

Only for a while,
On Nature’s pallet they sleep;
Their cover, her sky.

Too soon, Life stirs them,
For with it, the child must walk.
See how; side by side.

Turning away
      From tomorrow’s unknown,
      Nothing safe or solid or set in stone.

Turning away
      From the paths of today,
      Stony ground catching the words Nations say.

Turning back
      To yesterday’s years,
      … To a time when stones couldn’t bleed tears.

Stone ocean!
Stone ocean!
Tell me who I am for I have no name
And I know not from whence I came.

Little one, little one;
You are called Pebble and I gave you birth;
From my depths you came and you centre my Earth.

Stone ocean!
Stone ocean!
Am I alone in your sun-shimmered sound?
Why am I here and where am I bound?

Little one, little one:
To many like you, have I whispered my song;
To shores and your sisters will I bear you e’er long.

Stone ocean!
Stone ocean!
What will I do there and what will I say?
Will I see you again or feel your sway?

Little one, little one;
You will play with your kin each day ’til I call,
To kiss you four times, my one and my all.

Looked at for years
Yet somehow, never seen;
The silent witness to daily life.
Its cupboards, shelves and drawers,
Unlikely meeting places for
Family, friends and government.
At once eclectic and global,
Yet uniquely personal.
Old and new are neighbours
Where postcards and letters,
Knick-knacks and gifts from abroad,
Glass, brass and china,
Elastic bands,
Bills, string and pens,
Mingle with the glazed and frame-frozen smiles.
Minutiae and memories;
The common things of life alongside the treasured
Each kept safe;
Each with its place.

But in the now stilled house,
Slow in echo and air-hung hollow,
The solitary sounds of the clock
Settle with the sun-beamed dust,
To lie undisturbed upon the dresser.

Was this once the breast,
     where ached a heart longing
     for home and for hearth,
     as it lay quickly fading?

Did it sense at its last,
     that it was in truth, there,
     back with mother
     who gave it first beat?

Is this the sibiliant Serpent
that slid insidious round the Tree
to there bid Eve and Adam eat?
And as they fell from heavens grace
was it cast down upon this place
to repent at length it’s Devils deeds
in stony perpetuity?

No artisan crafted me,
      No human hand moulded me,
            No architect designed me.

Of Nature’s womb was I born.
      By the Elements was I fashioned,
            But by some Greater Mind, conceived.