LAMENT OF THE EARTH GOD The road was a long one, Full of pot holes and standing water, Gravel crunching beneath my feet, The grass verges soaked with rain. Dandelions, cowslips and late flowering daffodil Keeping their own counsel.
The old house that had been falling down For years, had been repaired. New doors and windows refusing to allow The driving rain entry to ruin Sweet smelling wood.
Once, here were fields of carrot and potato, Beetroot and onion, sweetcorn and pick-your-own strawberries.
The rain now so heavy, it sent me Running to the shelter of an old tree Whose canopy of leaves was as fresh and green As it had always been.
I stood in a silent corner, looking at the set aside field Of raw earth, stones and sullen weeds, Waiting for the earth god to wake up, Leap up and spring into the open, Grass and earth and worms and wood beetles Falling from his brown shoulders, towering into the sky, Reaching out his long arms to tear down the rain clouds, Chase away the sun hiding from his anger, Grabbing handfuls of planets and glimmering stars. Searching for a new home.
It was cold in the wood but I waited Until all the stars and planets lay weeping on the grass. Watched as rain became tears the earth god wept, Flinched as he roared his anger, sending flood and fire At the careless desecration of his home.
The artist is a liar About painting only what he sees In front of him. Slick lies of seduction slipping from his lips, Falling from his tongue, Like leaves falling from a wintered tree. He tells so many lies It’s a wonder he doesn’t go blind.
That naked breast she offers On fingers thin and sharp as boning knives Is not offered for free. Painting the aureole so dark Only the juice of damsons could create Such a full, rich, bruising.
This dance hall dame, remote and lethal, Puts no value on any part of her body. It’s all for sale For a wad of the folding stuff.
The artist rhapsodised about her hair, Her eyes, her implacable face. But no-one on earth could mistake That sullen, knowing mouth For the mouth of a woman Who has given in to seduction.
I’ll say! That’s the mouth of a woman Keeping her trap shut And counting the money.
The artist is a liar, Telling so many lies It’s a wonder he doesn’t go blind. Certain that this painting is so beautiful People will fight to have it on their wall.
When, all the time, he knows he has painted Her ancient and watchful soul, All bandaged about with suffering.
I love gates. Gates are the very things I am fond of. Not the huge iron gates Crackling with steel mesh And threats, To keep you in, But the lovely little Wooden gates, Awash with tall grasses And latches, To let you out. These gates, I love.
Thankfully, I now have limited access to notifications. Unfortunately, I still cannot access any notifications generated over this past week but, hopefully, this situation will be sorted soon. Thanks to all.