Speaking in Tongues

If I could do Donne,
I'd call you Sojourner Sunne.
Compare your rays
To a hundred compasses.
Arrange your feats
Into neat little conceits.

If I could speak Eliot,
I'd tell of Michelangelo,
Of women who come and go,
While you shrink away
(Much like poor Prufrock's hair),
and make me fret.

If I had symbols as neat
as those of Yeats,
I'd dub you,
in sheer defeat,
a dark angel,
of the Second Coming fleet.

But since I have nothing
But a clumsy, fumbling tongue
I'm asking you to stay put,
Nicely, with a please.
And if you still don't listen,
I'll speak you flogged and hung.

At the Lake

I

Thirty five greens,
A full forest palette,
Reflected in water.
Shadows creep quietly
Over its surface,
Carefully steering clear
Of deadwood arms
Eerily sticking out
Of the deep.


II

A twosome,
Geese or swans,
I can't tell.
Drunk on February sunshine,
Or revelling in their stark
Whiteness,
Glide rapidly away,
Dipping and bobbing
To their own song,
Of love?

III

A narrow slab of wood
Transforms
Into an intimate table
For four
On a sun-flashed terrace.
Absorbs beer-bottle rings,
Flecks of ash,
Spilt pasta sauce,
An erring blob of hummus.
Ties together threads
Of stories shared.
Becomes a prop
For heads thrown back
In unfettered,
Uncomplicated,
Laughter.

All,
Under a steady blue sky,
Over a living, green, lake.

Stupid Sun

Where are you, you gormless ball of fire?
You golden-gobbed, gilt-fleshed glorified globule;
What in the deuce, if I might enquire,
Is the meaning of this disappearing act you pull?

Like hair off an ageing superstar's head,
Like a hausfrau's frown after a Botox shot,
Like the red of that haircolour that's bled,
You've gone off absurdly and frankly, lost the plot.

Mornings have been gloomy, dull and grey
Afternoons morbidly slow, sluggishly two-tone.
Creep that you are, you've suddenly gone fay,
Sneaking into some hidey-hole, some off-radar zone.

So full of gas(literally and otherwise),you old humbug,
You make promises of bliss that you shamelessly renege.
If only I could trasmogrify your Midas-touched mug,
You'd end with your beatific face beautified with egg.