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The Vagrant Balladeer
after the trouvére Colin Muset
Winter's coming on again,
shorter days and a surly wind
biting the hands.
What I could do with now is a plain,
elderly master, generous and kind,
who understands
what makes a singer happy - fat
pork and a round of beef, pheasant,
lots of ale,
venison, cheeses in plenty - that
would be the day! Oh, what a heaven-sent
Holy Grail
of a place! And who knows, maybe his fine
lady would take a fancy to me -
and he not mind!
Meanwhile, I have to trudge on, no sign
of a meal, sleeping under a tree,
the world unkind.
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Short Break Ennui
Summer falters,
the heartbeat slows
as the motorway slides behind
in a hurry it knows
too well. Each crowded place
closes in, parasites sucking one's helpless
blood, their hordes crawling
everywhere, leaving no space.
The sea enviably dawdles
over rearranging
successive shores, the sapping grind
of day finally changing
to a slow turn on the spit
of humid night
when the ebb of life is somehow wearily measured
by the poems one will probably never write.
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How It Goes
Unsullied at sixteen, you'd see her blush
at anything risqué; seemed like a rose
in bud. Yet she was married in a rush;
he left her with the kid. That's how it goes.
A shop assistant, coy regarding bed,
shot a dark line in seedier-than-thou
confessions. Granpa raped her, so she said.
I doubted then - but I'd believe her now!
A civil servant, pretty, slightly lame
though popular, would weep in church and pray
forgiveness for a lover she daren't name.
Her brother was her secret fiancé!
Past relics; now all grandmas, I suppose.
We jerk to nature's strings. That's how it goes.
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