Keep the Beat.
The resonance of the drums bouncing off the stones,
inducing the hypnotic beat until oscillations merge,
stones and drums are one.
The great malleability of human amplifiers lifting
The Beat to the sun on the solstice,
making The Stones speak.
Drum channeling voices from earth, humans, wind,
into a great funnel upwards to Sky Father,
not to desert the land, to re fertilise and make her
live again.
Taking blood, always The Blood, Life Giver, and
returning it to the Earth Guardians,
fecund in its falling, spilling, seeping.
The Drum synchronises brain, heart,
with Earth Throb,
creating an unbreakable force.
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Last night out of my window a curved sliver of moon
finally faded over a crusted earth.
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Do Robots Converse While Working?
Painting robots like shrouded, jerky ghosts,
bending, dipping as the spray bursts,
the armature turns and twists.
And the dance of the synchronised welders.
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A Bruegel for today.
Men in hoodies, various types of woolly hats,
in overalls, with pinched winter noses and cheeks,
looking earthy, workmanlike, unadorned -
warmth the priority.
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On the field.
Four cock pheasants on the morning rime.
One, still, in a furrow,
One circling,
Two heading for the cover of the hedge.
A short "man-run" with bobbing head that
fizzles out to a stroll and peck.
Boldly bouncing hare bolts through them
like a bowl through skittles.
In the field today a morning workout.
Four hares racing back and forth
like a rugby scrum without a referee,
(Four seems to be this field's number)
then over the crest and out of sight.
Singleton sitting in silhouette against the sky,
long back legs able to tip the body forward,
pushing nose to the ground,
or tilting it up to test the air.
They race in synchronised, apparently aimless,
circles sometimes stopping to spar.
Along the boundary hedge a chopper streaks,
and undaunted hares lap the field,
athletes limbering up.
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Last night the wind howled with the ferocity
and rhythm of breakers on the shore,
whooshing, then silence, until the next heave.
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