Thursday, 29 December 2011


Came up with a rough draft in a back room of my Gran's house during a family Christmas party (sad, I know), and refined it steadily and irregularly over the next couple of days:

Listen for echoes of sombre occasions;

Gasping and sobbing,

Denying their lot.

Folding prevented, your hand has been dealt.

You’ll play it and take it,

Denying your lot.

There I was standing. Bleary unseeing,

Drone of the single then masses, ear-splitting;

Lead and responses then led to responding,

Low marble was full and above was expanding,

Creaking from coldness compared to within.

At my sight’s guilt edge despite my gaze above,

At the bequest of the ones who knew better:

(And everyone always does think they know better,)

Motionless heads remain rigid

Upon motionless necks,

And most likely motionless eyes

Kept certainty of their convictions outside.

I thought to myself: “Is it small wonder

That those who are happy are joyous no longer

Than needs be: when they have their power in numbers?”

And answered.

Eyes cast downward:

Both tiredness and thoughts that propel it.

Clasped on other sights

A contrast. Let us see -

Motion. Heads excitedly turning

Over one end of chin-height-and-darkening wood -

Perhaps it sat slightly closer than it should

To its twin right in front, and one in behind -

Those heads that were turning

Oblivious to drones

Were bright and were cheery and smiling all round.

The small ones were wailing through instinct behind,

But they tolerate wailing from those of their kind.