a curtal sonnet
Each obituary I read is mine;
husband, wife, son and daughter abide where
the records of their lives do still exist;
motality belongs to time's design,
stitching out each minute without prayer,
and you are simply helpless to resist
the imagination of the Weavers~
when will Atropos become the slayer,
and with her sharpened scissors give a twist,
putting all your plans to naught as reavers
take your soul for grist?
1066
Sad day on Senlac Hill.
King Harald takes an arrow
Through his royal eye.
And that Norman bastard,
Duke William, steals his crown.
Though it’s embroidery,
Not tapestry, tells the tale,
He finds himself the king of all he sees.
1297
Lord Warden of the March.
His bones well-sheathed
In tightly leathered muscle,
He guards the Western shore,
Ensconced in Carlisle Castle,
And stalks the reavers’ trail
Through Cumbria.
He finds himself the king of all he sees.
1922
Mud-larking on the Thames.
A muck rake in the hands
Of a common man,
Canvassing the northern bank
‘neath the trestle near
Cannon Street Station,
Searching for everyday treasures.
He finds himself the king of all he sees.
All the beserkers now lie sleeping,
Visions of severed hearts in their heads.
Thieves and reavers are all abed;
Posted at sentry, flaxen haired-
Walking dead, well fed and alert.
Beyond sentinel fires, wolves howl.
Amid the trees, lumbering bears prowl.
And the growl of wildcat in the wild wood,
Inspires owls to question "who?".
I answer "not me" and, so not any can see
Clutch the rose to my chest
And wince at the piercing of tender flesh-
of nipple by wild jagged thorn.
In the field of forgotten idols
I lie awake, aware of the approach of morn
When the shadows of night retire-
And, a new brighter terror is born.
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