Marionnettes Whirling in a jewel box Feel no more at home Than we do, Standing, Dreaming, In this jewel box of a world.
But we dance To a different tune to them. We dance To melodies that are beaten Into the earth. To rhythms That nourish coloured leaves And unveil flowers Scenting the air around us.
Marionnettes Jerk their little limbs As they are ordered. But denying bullet and bomb Whatever victory they are seeking, We dance, Freelance. Moving in the warmth and strength Of an all absorbing love.
Early in the morning When the mist comes rolling in from the fields, And the queer little ghosties Come riding and writhing within it, Sometimes leaping the battered old fence, Other times sneaking through the holes In the lacy broken wood, Crossing the garden like smoke, Coming to rest under the apple tree, It is then I see their long grey fingers Reaching through the leaves, Winding around the shining apples As if to pluck them from the branch and eat them, And by eating, gain life.
But then the Autumn sun slides Into the garden behind them, Patting the twinkling shadows Into tiny shapes of apple and leaf, Weaving the winking apples into its sunny fingers, Swallowing the mist and the little creeping ghosties, Dusting those green, green apples with a flush of rosiness.
Neither pen, nor film, nor brush, nor quill Can catch their utter loveliness. No, all that can be done Is to pick and hold and taste their glory, Whilst the birds, the goats, And the horse in the paddock Who leans its head over the dead Philadelphus, Over the tiny ghosties hiding in the dying flowers, All hold back to await another apple morning.
All the quiet hours Have slipped away, The laughing and the weeping Whirled into nothingness, But love remains, Burning with the desire To create a new reality.
We can change nothing that has gone, Yet as unblemished time Stretches out before us, We are impatient, Longing to tumble down Those promised days. Hold the hours together, Holding on for each other, Bringing hope, Bringing love that changes everything.
When I was a child, I was sent away for a year for my health. Everything there was the exact opposite to my home. No bright colours as at home and, of course, with so many children to care for, instead of love, there was an impartial interest and care. There are many times we would not go back to and this was one of them.
LET IT BE
Last night, The apple tree turned white, Its wide skirts trembling As if some fabulous ballerina Was dancing over the grass.
For a moment, I was taken back To my childhood. Looking at an apple tree Through a window, Where my finger nail Scraped long strands of frost.
Before the next winter’s frost, I was a long way from home. A long way from love and colour, Close to dark uniforms, To squares of aprons Crackling in snowy starchiness. White caps like fearful torches Breaking the dusky violet night, Making me weep for home.
Now making me glad that none of us Can inhabit the past.