Hallowing

Poems 2002-2006.  Illustrations by Rachel Errington.

John Lennon, on the Underground 

I had fallen from a great height,

jumped, to be specific, down a shaft;

steam vented, walled with brick, surprised

when the floor met my feet, gently,

and a door opened out

to the carraige.

Though black and white

the fittings still stood out;

brass railings and wooden slatted benches

and faces of men who spoke

about wood, in Anglo Saxon

and flat capped commuters

who had lost all memory

of destinations or arrival

and John among them, knowing

with the smile of his eye

that he would sit with this cargo

and hope for the end of the line

while I stumbled through,

looking for ladders

and new light.

this island

I have seen them scouring the borders,

scrubbing the skies of the realm.

I've heard the talk when the tides are high

of rotten hedgerows and the hawthorn

needed for the gap.

A white ship sails the blue land

all around our shores.

Holds the sides fast,

dances on the water.

A red jet diamond flies above the stones

and I can trace no reason in their trails

for bloodlust, or my enmity.

barrow

thistled rough clump of a burial

only just clear of the plough,

illdefined, sunken away.

no flowers for you.

once proud beacon

of the long rising spur

I salute your old bones,

unbidden and singing a song

about war. you drove

men to the ditch, like cattle

or they followed you, unbidden;

chief of the long shining spear.

old Battle Father, old grinder

of the smooth stone axe;

why is your memory now

like laughter of sun on the turf and the flowers?

Copyright all Text and Images J.A. Hindle 2008