St Blanes Dawn

The sun touches the uppermost point of the stone cross perched on
the apex of the little chapel's roof. Dew crystaled lichen 
capturing the rays of light and sending them twinkling to the 
ground. Beneath the cross,the building is held in darkness. 
Thick fog clinging, valley filling darkness, coating the walls
in damp rivulets, running down onto the rotting window cills, 
breaking them into sodden lumps of wood. All around the graveyard 
is green with dripping moss, hanging from the stones and flowing 
into the thick couch grass carpet below. 

Voices gather. At first indistinguishable from the 'cack' of
jackdaws in the brooding, bare branches above.  Broken fragments 
of speech, climbing into the valley. The squelch of boots through
the soaking grass, the soft rustle of oilskin, the breathlessness 
of lifting, as the old pedal organ is hauled into place. 

Slowly the voices grow distinct, individual, reaching out to each
other and forming conversations. The growing crowd silencing for
now the cackle of birds. Faces cram into the ruined chapel, lit 
by the sun now reaching down through the chancel window, while the
mist drips from tight drawn hoods. A new gathering of modern monks,
bridging the millennium, reaching back to the monks of Blane, 
holding fast the thread of time.

The pedal organ puffs and wheezes into life, notes clinging to 
the damp air, always a third too high to sing easily. Dawn 
breaks full through the window's stone arch, flooding the
little congregation in pale golden light, as the Easter hymn rises 
once more through the brooding trees, chasing the jackdaws
cackling loudly into the skies.


Two wisps of smoke
rising from the glowing
Twist and curl
in the silent air

and dancing together
Teasing, laughing
in the dawn light

then parting
Then distant as lovers
Eternal in their dance


Pixels in time

I brush a hair gently
From her white flower girl frock
As a tear slowly forms and
Runs across time.

A small brown stain
Has formed on her left wrist,
Rusting the silver bracelet, 
A blemish on her hand.

Carefully I polish time.
Shining the bangle,
While with siblings care
Renew her soft young skin.

Pixel by pixel
I recreate perfection,
Worn down by passing,
Buried by receeding time.

I cannot work on 
the next time lapsed image:

A girl's dark curled head 
Against a black shadowed door
Smiling and shy in
Her first blue checked bra.

If I could 
I would
Pixel by pixel 
Those nascent breasts. 

For they will never
Nurse long the young
She will produce.

They will merely fulfil
The warning
For the dark haired girl
Caught against the black portal of time.

© Malcolm Alexander 2017

Love is…


Hammock soul-therapy

Some times you just have to stop. 

My mind is crammed with 
sadness, madness, badness 
and a never ending 
Who are these people? 
How could they do that?
Three groups of children 
have been blown up or shot
in the last 4 weeks. 
Minya; Manchester; Aleppo 

To think is to scream.

So it's alright to stop, it's not my fault!

It's OK to swing gently
To and fro
While the sun shines through the
Orange, blue, green canvas stripes.

It's OK to twist gently
With the breeze
While the sun shines warmth
Deep into my soul

It's OK to just be.
As the sun sinks slowly
Across the bay 
And hides behind windmill hill.

I can only be defeated
If I never re-charge.
So it's OK just to stop 
and say it's not my fault.
Swing to and fro. 

Tomorrow I am ready.

She-wolf Tristesse (2)

Deep in her cave
She lies as
A single tear falls
Into the dark earth 

Through the cave mouth 
Which holds a window on the world
She sees a child
Who once was and
Deep in her sadness 
A deeper sadness still, wells up.

A sadness that deepens
To an anguish.
An anguish that deepens
To an excruciating pain.
An excruciating pain that
Explodes into a never ending howl!

With her howl 
The trees shake
Rivers rage and mountains moan,
While the elemental wind echo's her call.
The whole of nature cries out.

Why, man will you destroy yourself?

And deep in her cave
Another tear falls for
The child who once was but now never can be.

But through the cave mouth
That holds a window on the world
A voice as gentle
As a summer breeze 

Not all men will destroy!

There is a man
Who died for love
And through this man 
All can learn and live to love
And in this love no child shall cry.

And deep in her cave
A third tear falls for
The Child who once was 
and yet still will be.

© Malcolm Alexander 2017

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