Tony Jennett Poems

I scour the cottage for signs of past presence
L ike a famished orphan at the erstwhile site
O f a long-spilled rice-sack, grubbing some essence,
V estige of sustenance. Hope gutters fitfully not quite
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A Muse whispers
and the soul's pricked-up, hand cupped ear
strains hard to catch each syllable
wafting over memory's embers
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The mind and heart sustain contusions
By jumping to the wrong conclusions
And intellect, perhaps, divines
Too much by reading twixt the lines
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A line of doggerel? Poor enough in truth,
For one so rich in spirit. Yet I won
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An arctic blizzard whispers in my ear
Twelve inches off, through a block of new-cut snow
Howling, unpenetrating. Does it know
I'm sitting warm and smiling here?
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Falling asleep all the time - that's expected
But I see the bag's gone that cries tears
In my arm. But the fire in my chest is not resurrected
And that for days? weeks? was the sum of my fears
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The sun has just taken a suicide dive.
A dive to gambol and gamble with a sick spring lamb
Half a world away behind a line of westering waves
Wich all day flashed blue, crested white
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With a final burst of red across the mirrored Llyn
The sun strikes copper from the glistening organ frieze
Of Glyder Fawr and sets behind Y Garn; old yogin
Lotus posed, his little lake couched twixt his knees:
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So, hello vertigo! Bane of other's lives not mine.
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Under a polycarbonate cover of riot shields
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