Michael Shepherd Poems

Their wives were not too keen about it all:
beyond the call of duty, so it seemed;
for, if they read the heavens' portents so well,
what need of proof, of presence at the scene?
...

our deepest being is that which observes:
which watches, far beyond all forms of thought,
as hand and tool and all the senses serve
to find and make new things; or shine at sport;
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In the deepening dusk of forest glade,
in the mist of clouds rolling over the high hills,
in the sea-fog rolling in at turn of tide,
what feature of its form alerts us first
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He said, that Allah had cursed thrice Afghanistan;
cursed it with those curses, which all evil men
see as their life’s blessings:
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The cry goes up…
making atheists out of believers,
believers out of atheists…
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The door creaks as she opens it
and the fall of the heavy iron latch
echoes through the empty church.
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Alarm clock. The sun rises.
The buses, railways, flights are running.
There’s a bottle of milk on the doorstep.
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I remembered I'd promised my Aunt Adele before she died
that I'd get in touch with her family in Oz
just to put matters to rest, since they'd not spoken for years
since she upped and went off with this Pom
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When the music calls to the soul’s hunger
the matzub begins to turn like a shy maiden;
then faster, faster; centrifugal force
will throw him out of kilter, off the dance floor,
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Today's Marathon Day here in London.
An unpleasant image strikes me:
suppose the journey to the Pearly Gates
looks just like the TV coverage of the marathon?
...