When the poet died
the keyboard lost all its notes,
the black and the white.
The slippery green frog
and blue horses
were the poet’s own song.
She talked to stones,
felt the deep sting of a wasp,
knew loneliness too.
She passed this way,
playing high in a wild sky,
attracting the sun.
Not for her the fumes of the city.
[Image- painting – by Robbin T Milne – with permission]
Children
No matter how tall the leaves of grass grow,
the snow will fall again on the field.
The rabbits are running now,
nettles feasting on sunshine,
and the bees are minding their own business,
somewhere else.
No matter my friend has lost his friend,
there will be friends again.
There is a cancer in the fields,
long shadows over hedgerows,
birds I cannot name sing without melody,
and life growing underfoot.
How are the children now? Who are the authorities?
Are there any youngsters without tears flowing,
without tears repressed, stifled?
There are shards on the road, and dust,
buttercups and dock leaves,
foxgloves, and infants on the roads.
An iron gate opens,
an iron gate shuts,
a horse looking for attention,
a gray standing still,
maybe there are fresh eggs.
Why were the children born?
There is horseshit everywhere I look
Clean it up, someone – I’ve said enough.
God bless America,
The horses have bolted,
who’s in charge here?
The leaves of grass are growing,
whether we like it or not.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 