The Final Descent
He is making the final descent,
from a long, turbulent Parkinsons flight.
Flown across many days,weeks,months,years and time zones..
Dim now the cabin lights.
Watch the stars flicker on the runway below;
As the wheels of life kiss the ground one last time.
The last conversion has been kicked.
The final kilometre kite is in sight.
The last call to,take the strain and pull,rings out.
The Drumlin hills bow their heads in respect.
Siochs, full with winter rains,flow in silence.
Leaves,on the fairy tree rustle at half mast.
The sun,dances one last ray across Windy Harbour;
as dusk comes dropping slowly.
A red sky, sinks into a western glow
As the shepard settles,one last time, into a peacful sleep..
It was a bright cold sunny morning
The mist lifted without warning
As we walked through the cemetery gate
It had been nearly a hundred years wait
Outside of the Ieper Menin Gate
We had come to honour you, mate
About a kilometre down the Menin road
You marched this way with your pack and rifle load
But counter battery fire had put paid to you
When you died with your mates too
And you lay so long asleep
With now a promise we did finally keep
To visit you from Australia the Great Southern land
Keeping a family promise made long ago without demand
Honouring a fallen Digger lying far from his home
In Belgium's sacred soil
"Good on you, cobber" you've finished your earthly toils.
A white dossier is neither a manual for a pilot on a pivotal stand nor a baking tray waiting for butter. Criss cross ducking on an angled penned out sketch. Drawing a ruin is not a clever idea for ruins are raving and raving is a radiant rather real rhombus reaching radical radios rationally. But a tall ironed turban is a fanciful cheese at a party wrapped in silky golden studded bread paper. And the tissues are to be halted at the wide gates for they are increasingly dangerous when they are wet and wet is not rain, oil, or paint. It is the will of the course on a cross country that spans over 12, 650, 901 miles. And a kilometre is neither a kayak nor a kaleidoscopic kale. Making a mark on a moonlit mortality. And the ship goes beep beep beep in complete unison with an underground bus. Boom then. Bull bringing bombs baking beasts. And a ponytailed servant mouse peeking from a window in shrewd observation of the spectacular show below in a glow and in goblets grunting. Give no iron fists talon to a bluebird balancing on a jelly bean. Hahaha washing windows will water wallabies. Hahaha spoon dancing with a grape. Xxxxxx consequentialism
A bin in a sin is a din a Zen. But a booming bongo basket could always equate to a left hooked right winged shark. Oh gosh it's dark.. Oh dear. Oh no. A cracked out fish on a display. Er. Even the wildest foot could not display a metric feet. And a multi mule is a kilometre in a mud pit. But nevermind the cellar in a cesspit which always roles twice in a moon. Over and over but not oversized. Oh well. Big deal. A fathomable bag of conversation is a broom curve in a bush. la la laughable long-term lines. And a bracket form of the United Methodist isn't a little late but I don't know what to wear and the clan of the article is an antic formed by a deity of widespread wisdomatic curvaceous dew. Hahahahaha spill moons. Hahahaha sip suns hahahaha aerial dynamics xxxxxxxxxxxxxx polypeptides polynomial polynomial xxxxxxx executioners exiting xxxxxxx delve not in a diva dive xxxxxxxx had he Hendre hat xxxxxxxxx general Glitter generally xxxxxx Philipsburg point xxxx hypercholesterolemia xxxxxxx z p y q reporting from p y what p y Q reporting? Xxxxxxx
Rabbits at junctions are often akin to moons at traffic lights. A light lunch is preferable to a whisky scone when taking a picnic to a lake. But playlists can play so font argue with a flamed fortress of fig. Tailoring a suit for a nine foot bead and dazzling s crowd with a one millimetre tiara is not a sound judgment for a counting ball. 1 2 3 then. Radio that on a one kilometre hand held microphone. Hahahahaha the skipping rope is jumping in a hula hoop today. Lovely. It is not the way of the feathered cloud to land in a field fuelled upside-down but a gridlocked four dimensional satanic bowler hat can swim many acres in a spotted swimsuit. Good. Underpasses underwater underground undertake uniquely unequal unisons. And a proxy is neither productive nor normal. Statutory static authorisational code bringing wine to a ball room. Fantastic news for the pillar. Geranium gathering giblets. And a pie. Wow. Xxxxx destitution demon demonstrated dogmatic dramas digging. Xxxxxx counter intelligence and no matter. Xxxxx miscommunication Z
Grass
A Man of discernment the grass he gazes
With invariable appetite as a cow that grazes;
Grass in plains meanders with admiration,
And up the hills in its converse undulation-
He’s green, not with envy, but admiration!
The Idiot who laid a carpet, forgetting grass
His mind is dowdy and his brain has no mass
Who would dare bestow him worthy hugs
Who defiled the Soccer Pitch with shop tugs
Who killed Nature whilst in pursuit of rugs?
Green veldt, green courtyard; green, green
Green is life; where green is there’s no spleen.
Should distance of a kilometre grass you eat
Chances are that, should you survive the feat,
All ailments you’ll be cured once and neat!
Should we not eat grass- listen to the murmur-
To savour its natural taste and green glamour;
We better adore, stop to inveigh or to boast
In white milk we drink and meat we roast
Grass daily fills our stomachs with the toast?
***Inspired by the beauty and surreal view of a freshly mowed lawn.
JM
24th Nov’ 2013
FEEDING HORSES
She was four years old
Apples in bulging pockets from garden trees
Cold day in autumn
Stroll down to Paddy Sands’s horse pasture
Stop at five-bar gate and lift her up
Call or whistle - they come from a half-kilometre
Black, brown mares, one gelding
Jealous one tries to bite the others
Jostling for position at the gate
All those soft soft noses.....
They will permit stroking
If fed enough handfuls of grass
Grass tastes better from our hands
Than when cropped by them,
(Especially with tiny flowers of blue vetch).
Their big brown eyes close up
So peaceful and trusting
Tempting furry ears just out of reach for her
Turning cold now after half an hour
Spoil them with our apples before we go home
Show her how to hold back her thumb
So it doesn’t get bitten.
Walk home through Sands’s cropped hayfield
To tea and biscuits.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written for Carol Brown's Contest "A Horse Story"
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