HUNTER'S MOON

Now is the turning of the year

when shadows steal the red and gold.

A black and silver time is here;

no living thing escapes the cold.

No leaf to soften stump or bough,

just crunch of rimy crust afoot.

All's barren and asleep for now,

locked up in burrow, earth and nut.

No breath be heard but breath be seen

when Winter's hand extends a grip

and stills the air for Hallowe'en,

usurping Autumn's howling whip.

And now will dead and living share

the marble moon's vicarious beam;

black bones of twigs against its glare

and Jack a-twinkle by the stream.

EARTHSTRUCK

(The Moon's view of Earth)

Goddess

I see vapour spirals bind you;

white lace on your blue dress.

An eye dark with tears;

red hot blood explodes from your heart;

your breath is uneven;

It is held- -you whisper- -

then roar and spin, a dervish

dress billowing

I watch as your rare creations suck life from your bones,

while you craft and hone,

your fingers sweat and mould.

you want flawless work.

You make more and more,

until you're infested with rejects

that turn on you and eat your skin.

You

melt down, weed out,

wash away, burn off.

You are brutal in frustration,

diligent in renaissance.

Your name will be Utopia

before you rest.

Your neighbours give you the cold shoulder.

I pay silent homage.

Why do you do it?

PIG

I was the pig who built with bricks

so wolf couldn't blow down my house.

I got complacent.

I was in there for years

before wolf figured out what to do.

Disguised as my Grandmother he knocked at the door.

I let him in.

Now he's got my chops.

In the Department of Social Security, Bolton, Lancashire

Rows of chairs like frayed cliffs

bear human rocks and boulders

in various stages of erosion,

crumbling hands hold numbered slips,

stone faces hold eons of endurance.

42 is sedimentary bedrock

of the carboniferous period,

his pocked stone promontory dusted with lichen.

He is sedentary

on chair number 3, row 5

waiting for a booth to come vacant

4.2.

red digits flash

4...2.

42 grumbles and rolls,

tumbles into the booth,

looks through two layers of glass,

sinks under cold grey eyes,

is chipped away by gusts of bureaucracy

is worn down by waves of indifference,

is diminished by tides of change.

42 wonders why

he feels like a weight

on a society

that built itself

on his back