Form the bottom of the rummage bag,
Buried under assorted pendants and brooches,
Their chains all muxed up like a bird’s nest on a fishing reel
(and I’ve had a few of them in my time!) ,
The Crack of Dawn
Rent the sky’s heavy grey winter greatcoat
From seam to boring seam,
Tore it the hard way:
Furrows in the aching brow.
Furrows in the wakening earth.
Both scored deep by the power of the plough.
Caught myself thinking I'd been 'hard done by', today…
And, in a fiscal, Einsteinian, Relativistic sort of way
I guess I had been, I could well say:
More 'F=TJ shafted' than E=MC squared,
What propels a man to climb out,
At 200 mph,
And 20,000 ft
No, not the school playground game of 'tag' –
That marginally less aggressive version of 'British Bulldogs'
Where whoever was slow and out of favour:
Inevitably the 'swot',
Sometimes from birth.
Something inside that just doesn't work
Or that gives up the ghost without much warning
Much later when you're not looking.
First it was a foetus
Umbilical cord and all
A la Leonardo,