The Pursuit and The Prize

Across these

Formerly fertile fields, 

Snow shielded, 

I trace a delicate

Track. 

Steps twisted and

Tortuous I trail, a

Pattern of promise, a

Gait enticing, a 

Lure, livid enchantment

To trap my hunter's 

Heart, onward drawn

'Till one rosy dawn

Illumes my elusive prey. 

That morn I use my

Hunter's horn in

Hurried passion's howl. 

Distract, entrap and catch

My wily witch, a prize

I find to hold a heart

As black as all the 

Naked nights of

My fool's pursuit. 

Home

I have made of my home a Hell. A cocoon, causal comfort, patterned in flames and red fire, anticipating Apocalypse…

These Holy Days

O, cold, callous caucus,

Intensively inattentive,

The plight of no-rights 

Fills not a sidebar, not a 

Column-inch 'tween

Tri-coloured impressions of

This season's must-have glee;

Wanting hearts bleed in vain.

Possessing possessions;  

Commercial passion usurps

The ancient mythic tale.

Gone all those beyond the pale, 

No plate, no sup, no joyous cup,

No relief of unremitting pain 

This year or next

Even from the way-too blest.

Every year the wall is built

Between the lucky and the bilked

Whose life our world has milked;

The denial of need which feeds

The fount of plenty for

Those whose bounty o'er flows 

The tallest ewers made of gold,

To leave the ghosts their fare of mould.