3 Mini Extracts from 3 Novels by Isabel Mary Wallace

1) At last I came to a town. The strength of the sun turned its pale stone to white so that its beauty stood clear and sharp beneath the sapphire sky.
I found the market place. I stood amidst its bustle. I felt the touch of humanity as its crowds brushed passed me and I heard its voices, its shouts and its whispers close to my ears. My pain was eased and my loneliness withdrew. I stayed all day and watched the colours. Canopied stalls and barrows of peppers, tomatoes and aubergines, ripe and shining. Pale pinks and greys of shellfish. Yellow cheese and dark red hams. Chickens and hens scratched and flapped in their cages. Pigs squealed. There were rolls of bright cloth, rows of leather shoes, piles of pots and pans and pyramids of brown and white eggs. It was a place of plenty. It was a place of sweat and haste, frowning brows and lips moving fast with the fury of barter and business.
At midday the church bells rang out. A young woman came to me with wine, bread and cheese. She was small elfin, dark eyed and olive skinned. She wore a cotton dress of red flowers on pale green, her arms were bare to the summer heat and her hair was long in black braids. In the evening when the market disbanded and drifted away, leaving me alone in an empty square, she was still there. She took my hand and led me to her home. She nursed my weariness she gave me her warm, unashamed love. Her dark, lithe body was gentle and wild, silent and alive. Her young girl's breasts, the sweet dew between her slender legs, she gave and I took. I stayed with her too long. I stayed with her until one day I saw that her pretty eyes were seeing me forever, then I knew I had to go.
As I left the town I saw its broken bridge. Half a bridge spanning half a river, as though its heart had broken half way across and it was never able to reach out and touch the other side. She yearned so to give. I could not give myself just so that I might take. I left her with a child growing inside. I hope she will not always be sad.
From "Star Shine, The Ocean & The Unicorn"

2) The solstice sunrise on Bantock Hill was a yearly event for the Philistines and Dee was expecting their arrival but no one came and when the dawn broke the east with its first strip of daylight it was for Sam and Dee alone. The sun rose, a giant glowing orb like a red moon in a sky that was pink and cirrus sea that washed its weird tide of colour and unfathomed emotion over the man and the girl on top of Bantock Hill. From the hill tops of the valley to the far horizon of the lowlands to the north, generations of ghosts who had known and worked the fields and farms rose again for a moment to see time stand still on the solstice morn.
From "The Lion's Carcass" Samson and Delilah set in 1970's Somerset, with a chapter of bikers called The Philistines.

3) It is first light and the troupe are on the road heading out of London towards their first venue in Warwick but their normally hale and hearty writer and director is disgruntled.
Nobody pierces the silence around Michael's mood as he licks his wounds after a fitful night's sleep peppered with uncomfortable dreams expounding the harsh truth of Elspeth's words.
These dreams pester him, unwilling to fade in the broad light of day, they linger waiting for him to acknowledge their illustration of events as they really happened and one scene in particular is replayed over and over again showing his sister as a young woman storming out of a family party, throwing down an overcoat Aunt Maud has tried to place on her shoulders and embroidered on the back of this overcoat are the words "LACKLUSTRE AND IDIOT" and as she leaves Michael arrives wearing a similar overcoat adorned with the words "CHARMING, GOODHEARTED BOY" .
In an effort to prevent the complete unravelling of the seamstress, Michael spontaneously elects to wear the coat Justina has discarded underneath the coat he has become attached to, gallantly repairing as best he can the threadbare protocol of the mistress of the family wardrobe, Aunt Maud.
By choosing to defend the order of Aunt Maud's propriety, Michael had banished his muse in favour of adopting the attributes of the second overcoat beneath those of the first.
Michael needs reassurance that his muse has returned.
A trick of synchronicity soon dispels Michael's fears when his muse appears in her human form somewhere between Uxbridge and High Wycombe.
Franzine's recognition of Elena Joy Constantine causes Michael to insist they stop and take on a passenger whose tufted, urchin hair makes her a spectacle of pity and obvious need and on welcoming her aboard he politely enquires into her ancestry and her knowledge of 'The Flower Fables'.
Elena Joy admits to being Esme May's grand-daughter and volunteers a recitation of the authors work.....
From "Mrs Moon's Children" (was a work in progress. The first book of a trilogy to be followed by "Lady Angel's Adopted Son" and "Granny Walcott's Garden"

Pinocchio's Palace

Stefan Von Krass, known as Pinocchio on account of his long nose and his lies, was an evil man with spite's glint in his grey eyes and hatred's thin curl upon his lips. There was a dark storm in his pinched heart forever leeching on the soft malleable generosity of those he fell upon and devoured.
- "To Happen Upon And Destroy" - Stefan's motto, technique and vocation. Von Krass was in essence vampiric. His raison d'être was based on an innate need to take the life out of the living. The pure he would dissolve, the good he would suck out and spit away, the actively creative he would lay back down to its latent form, the positive he would obliterate past negative and into void. He could pinpoint a particular passion in an individual, a social group or a business concern and he would stride into the middle as one who shared it and slowly, impreceptibly he would turn the heat of their passion against itself so that it was rendered down like pig fat into nothing. Two or three of these projects would be run in concurrence to maximize profits that were reckoned up in terms of satiation. His momentary gains, though often large, were secondary.
On waking one crisp winter's morn just a little way past the midpoint of his life, Stefan knew it was time to seek out greener pastures. The name Pinocchio had been bandied about within his own earshot too often too carelessly. He supposed he had worked the same game over and over far too long in too small an area and his cover had now blown. Recent victims were filing cases he did not wish to answer. No hard evidence could be found against him but nevertheless it was time to go. So he abluted using unguents of violets and cosmetic creams of cucumber and avocado, he blackened and oiled back his hair and nattily applied the faintest touch of pink blusher to his pale drawn cheeks. The fop in the looking glass peered from the high arches of his eyebrows, right the way down the length of his authoritative nose and sneered at the world beneath. Adhering to a staunch perfection designed to intimidate, he dressed in a dark grey three piece, a cream silk shirt and a paisley dickie-bow. His ox blood shoes were over shiny and his suit pristine. An outfit hard and sharp in crease and cut wards of curiosity. It speaks for itself, no one contests it. His clothes were his armour. He packed a leather travelling bag, each item folded with a geometrician's neurotic precision. The bag snapped shut. He settled a camel hair coat across his shoulders, placed a white silk scarf about his neck, pulled on black leather gloves, angled his trilby and set out.
Lazily submitting to the rolling gait of the Trans-European Express, Von Krass, gazing through his compartment window from one heavy lidded but still resting eye, espied the Palace. In a moment it was gone and Stefan, wide awake now, had gone with it, captivated by that split second's glimpse of its strange medley of turrets and bulbous spires and outdoor spiralling staircases all perched like an eyrie atop a steep and forested mountain. He had to see more. But unfortunately for Stefan there would be no sightseeing party or guided tour, for this was a private Palace owned by and old and dying man who had a beautiful daughter, still too young and naive to have hardened herself against the wickedness of the world, would inherit all in a matter of weeks. I say unfortunately, because although here was a situation for the taking and take it Stefan surely would, unbeknown to him and indeed to anyone for the past five hundred years, the builder of the Palace had instructed a sorcerer to lay a curse on the stones that would come into effect should he ever be vanquished and his palace be inhabited by a rival baron. The wizard had stood at the edge of the quarry and over each large stone laid in a cart pulled by six donkeys, he uttered these words;

"Fool a Cuckoo with a welcome,
Watch a Jackdaw steal the gold,
A Magpie roost amidst its plunder
And a Cockerel strut so bold.
Pay no heed to a Peacock's vanity,
Of a Vulture have no fears
As its talons tear through carrion
For four full years.
A year of acquisition,
A year of gain,
A year of arrogance,
A year of disdain.
At a feast of Victory
See an Eagle soar.
See an Eagle plummet
When the Feast Day numbers four.
The foot that crossed the threshold lamed,
See a Gander stumble,
The hand that pushed the door will claw
As its bones begin to crumble.
A bird lies crippled in another's bed,
Madness in its soul.
A bird imprisoned in another's Palace,
Caged in the cage it stole."

The spell was still intact.

A gingerbread station waited. Its window boxes abloom with geraniums, its shutters all daintily painted sky blue and dusty pink to match the decorative woodwork that edged the eaves over the platform and the low surrounding picket fence. The train pulled in. One passenger alighted, none embarked. Bag in hand, Stefan Von Krass hailed the one awaiting cab to his terrible end.

GRANNY CELANDINE

Granny Celandine in myth
Was forever old,
Or so her grandchildren
Were always told.
So the legend carried
Spoon-to-spoon-fed
Of an entire life lived
At a quarter to dead.
Celandine's vocation
Began at crone,
Wizened and wise one
We called our own.
Her childhood, her youth,
Her middle-aged fiction
To our eager hearing
Of her detailed diction
On earlier stages
Of her pronounced longevity
Appealing to our own
Inconsequential brevity
Through the woodlands
And the hedgerows,
Over the marshes
And the meadows
To the old oak's hollow.

We absorbed all evidence
Of descendancy designated
In our very own lives
Where her lifeline resonated.
We back tracked in time
To stand in her shoes
Imagining ourselves
Where Time's lines lose
The straight and narrow
Of distinct definitions
To warp and blur
Between generations.
Her eyes could twinkle,
Her frown could scold,
Her timidity was defiant,
Her indignation bold.
Granny Celandine had withdrawn
From a society she despised
To shelter where her values
Were not compromised
Through the woodlands
And the hedgerows,
Over the marshes
And the meadows
To the old oak's hollow.

Granny Celandine was a stranger
To pompous vanity,
Abhorring its concept
She considered it audacity
A blasphemous waste
Of human potential
Where arrogance usurps
The plainly essential
In a world misaligned
And unable to atone
She would neither collaborate
Nor condone
Actions in the name
Of advancement and prosperity
For the sake of too few
At a cost to too many.
She could not abide
Nature's decline
To industrial aspirations
Considered divine
Above the woodlands
And the hedgerows,
Over the marshes
And the meadows
To the old oak's hollow.

Imbalance surrounded
Granny Celandine's haven
Where her garden grew
By a lore engraven
In Gaia's own stone
Of sustainable commandments
Preaching an adherence
To nature's investments.
Keeping fish in the sea
And nutrients in the soil
Should be part and parcel
Of mankind's toil.
But vain impatience
And ham-fisted greed
Had prompted Mother Nature's
Need to recede
Where Granny Celandine joined her
In abject disgust
Warranting support
And a shared distrust
Through the woodlands
And the hedgerows,
Over the marshes
And the meadows
To the old oak's hollow.

While commerce raged
With excitable force,
Granny Celandine cherished
Mother Nature's source
By building a temple,
Her honour to esteem,
In the old oak's hollow,
Her worship to redeem
And here begins
An extraordinary tale
Of wondrous events
With which to regale
The reader of
A specific bent
Who is able to sense
The magnificent event
Of Earth's own magnetism
In one concentrated well
Rising from the ley line
Crossing hill and dell
Through the woodlands
And the hedgerows,
Over the marshes
And the meadows
To the old oak's hollow.

Granny Celandine's oak
Hand magical properties
Offering dreams and insights
To seekers of prophecies
Carefully chosen
By select degree
To enter her garden
And visit the tree.
The credentials of the few
Allowed through the gate
Were great in spirit
And connected by fate
To amass reinforcements
Of compassion and care
To combat economies
Of global despair.
And when Celandine's life
Was finally to cease,
Her name and position
Were passed to her niece
Through the woodlands
And the hedgerows,
Over the marshes
And the meadows
To the old oak's hollow.

Granny Celandine's mission
Is amply fulfilled,
Now timeless in legend
And mythology instilled
In the repertoire
Of ordinary folk
Whose lives will be healed
Via the voice of the oak
Softly spoken
Into appropriate ears
Of leaders in rebellion
Over the years
Until such time
As the power-craze shifts
From the stealers of souls
To the bearers of gifts,
From the vantage of greed
And the viewpoint of gluttony
To a judicious presiding
Over a common harmony
Through the woodlands
And the hedgerows,
Over the marshes
And the meadows
To the old oak's hollow.

The Great Granny Celandine,
Chelidonium majus,
Was once a reclusive
Yet ultimately famous
For her dowdy dress
And frugal ways
At odds with the wealth
That shone from her gaze,
Wide and bright
With an impish grin
Enjoying an irony
She kept within
While modernity ran riot
Towards its own fall
Beyond the sanctuary
Of her dry-stone wall
Surrounding the garden
Handed down her line
To Granny after Granny
After Granny Celandine
Through the woodlands
And the hedgerows,
Over the marshes
And the meadows
To the old oak's hollow.

Old crone Celandine's
Guardianship of the oak
Was entrusted to her
For her ability to revoke
The corporate world
She came to despise
With a three quarter drop
Of the lids of her eyes
beneath which her savvy
Shone in slithers
Of inner knowing
That slowly withers
The Establishment's hold
Over you and me
As our gathering numbers
Flock to her tree
Where Green Man, Jack Frost
And pagan sprites recline
Beneath the steadfast protection
Of Granny Celandine
Through the woodlands
And the hedgerows,
Over the marshes
And the meadows
To the old oak's hollow.

"The Great Bazooka"

he was a clown once,
he used to thrust chairs
into the jaws of stuffed lions
and extract a flower,
walk the tightrope
fall.....
hang by his teeth
and raise his eyebrows at the crowd

but now he plays
solitary tricks with memories
in the gloom of his old caravan,
his costumes gather dust in the cupboard,
his faces fade in the drawer,
children press against his window
and stare at his empty mirror
their breath clouds the glass

meanwhile the circus prepares for the show

suddenly
the children scream and back away
the door explodes........
a strange figure emerges from the billowing smoke
resplendent in an enourmous striped swimsuit
complete with flying helmet, goggles and snorkel,
a large pink flipper tests imaginary water,
the great nose quivers and tilts to the sky
his arms raised high
he dives..........
and swims through the crowd,
and the children dance and cry:
"Bazooka's back!
 Bazooka's back!
 Bazooka's back!"

night and day

in my sleep
there was a frozen waterfall
caught
like a sudden splash of a huge white moon,
and later
there were fireworks and rainbows
that gave out wonderful music
as i danced and sang
on the shore of a wide black river.....
this evening
i walk in the door
of a house full of strangers
the air full of slow jazz and wine,
a woman, wide eyed and solemn
turns in the lamplight
like the earth towards the sun
and greets me
and aah!
the magic ripples between us thicker than silver
and i laugh and shake my head
like a beggar who finds jewels in his soup -
oh, what days and nights these are!

Isolated

I cannot reach you
I want to
I need to
We are both above the clouds
But we are on separate islands
We ought to be together
Want to be together
Need to be together
But we are both isolated
Oh please, I must reach you
I cannot
Why?
Fate.

(Spring 1977)

A Crying Conscience

A crying conscience weeps
Beneath fate's phantom-breath
A whispering stream washes away
A decaying depth of vision
Only a watery-eyed image remains
To be remembered

(September 1977)

Smiling Scenes

Smiling scenes appear in a misty-mind
Soft eyes cling to delicate blossoms
Left by a passing rainbow
As a carpet of lace
On which idle figures wonder
Breathing the sweet, chablis flavoured air
And savouring its innocent charm
For as the present slips into the past
The future floats in on rain clouds.

(September 1977)

Ment

There's a core of people in this town
Who do the work
A grope for dope or cruise for booze
It pins you to the grindstone
But you don't fall down
The abyss of reality

She's sane, got brain
She walks the path that goes down the hole
Pounds the hours round and round
Work - the circle
that makes you sweat
Good times round the corner?
No beginning no end

The shit flies but she can cope
Men get scared don't kinow the type
That shrugs it off but takes no more
Tough but tasty, she pulls her own strings
Meanwhile the beautiful people, puppet master's pets
Having shown concern, drive back to the ivory tower

She goes round

But in a corner of some forgotten book, her love lies waiting

(5MK 1981)

Confusion

It rained
I rushed
Confused
A recent conversation lingered
Bleached my brain
Thoughts grew
Muddled
Dispersed
And were lost
The sun glared
On puddled-pavements
I walked towards another problem
I tried to solve it
Before I met it

(July 1977)

HELLO!

HELLO!
Can they hear me?
No they can't
I'm too far away
Away inside myself
They see a person
Which is my body
They know a person
Which is my act
They don't know ME
Because they don't know I exist
Because they don't know THEY exist
And that's what matters

(Summer 1977)

Her Seekers' Eyes

She holds only her seekers' eyes
As her wise wheel turns
Through their spirited lives
Where forgotten
Fortune dies

(Spring 1978)

Fall Out Of The Clouds

Fall out of the clouds
Land in insects mests
A turmoil of faceless voices
Retreat
Search for the gentle waves
Of the cirrus-sea
Tormented
By cul-de-sac'd catcombes
In mazed-minds

(Spring 1977)

Love Life For Me

In love with you, I ran from you,
Cradling every detail of the missive you had bourne.
And now, high in flight
On the quill tips of my angel muse,
It is too many years too late to return,
Though in vision and in dream,
This I see, this I learn;

That your love of life has crumbled
Time and time to dust
Between the smug, dry palms
Of anothers distrust.
Colleagues and companions
Mindful of your courage,
Jealously obliged
With intent to disparage.
Pinnacles of falsity,
Narrowed, pointed, confined.
The spires were all cold
To the dreams you had in mind.
And sweet Jayne in black lace
Made from many a maids' tears,
Her morbidity arising
From the pit of her fears.
She informed the movie mogul
That you were a lost young man.
To abolish your goal
Was her fiendish plan.
But I spied your etheral guide,
I saw his name upon a stone
And above his name
Was carved your own.
Like the Mayflower you must sail
From the grey and passionless Isles,
From yellow mouthed promises,
From shallow-eyed wiles.
Find meaning in the misfortune
That has rendered you lame.
Carry the banner of calling
Into the battle of fame.
Go forward as an orphan,
Untutored, unchecked.
Lay bare your truths,
Embellish, dissect.
From the heights of glory
To the depths of strife,
Reinstate extremity,
Repossess your love of life.

I am now the messenger
As you were once a messenger to me.
My message is this;
'Love life for me'.

(July 1990)

Tea-Room Couples

Bellies waffle-full
Maple syrup, orange blossom brew
Such sweetheart hunger satisfied
Hands entwine the casual bond
Of morning lovers returning for the afternoon
To the naked, caressing coal of their shady room.

I imagined romance flowered gardens
Of a summer-lovers affair
But with petal passions declared fallen and dead
I was quietly, quickly, neatly shelved
Filed in a pussy-dealer's moneyed memory bank
Wintering in my pmpered arms
He left with a love-lined heavy purse of mine
His emotions disposed of in the back door bin
My pearls-strung tears still broken
Into whispers of pieces of aborted dreams.

Nicotine yellow, indigo wine and red blood mingle
Hot-heart pumping mad nightmares
that stain my brain
Body-supine, sun soaked
Lazy heat-haze painless daze
Only in the head does this sick sorrow spew.

Swallows swoop back through my eyes
As rooks in grey-clouds visions
Of mind and heavy soul
Squawking, repeating, reminding
Shame-hate-rejection-pain
Sharp and sudden and again
and again....
Another empty battle's acid reflections
Of a cheap poison past.

(March 1983)

I Beware

There is a distancing
Now that what we both thought
And I still think
Is for you, no longer true
Although I feel I already know
For you and for others
It is only time who is allowed to tell
Time the Judge and Time the Saviour
Until in desperation for some proof of love
You heed the evidence of a misplaced truth
And by your own foolishness
While away the days and hours
Of Time the liar and Time the slayer.

Writer and Muse

I am the vessel
That carries her voice
She embarked on my journey
And left me no choice
She came aboard quite suddenly
How could I refuse
I am the writer
And she the Muse

I am the child
Who is loyal to no other
She took me for a daughter
Though she is no mother
She adopted me quite ruthlessly
And began to enthuse
I am the writer
And she the Muse

I am the prisoner
Waiting for bail
She is the judge
Who threw me in jail
My sentence may be life
Bid who can I accuse
As I am the writer
And she the Muse

I am the dove
That flies from her sleeves
She the magician
Whose timing deceives
Plucking quills from my tail
How she does abuse
I am the writer
And She the Muse.

(January 1989)

Do You Know The Author of 'Listen'?

Please leave a comment if you know the
author of the poem 'Listen' posted on this blog.

Young Ibby

A Snippet Of Ibby's Album

Listen (Author Currently Unknown)

Do you really think I would leave you?
You should know that I would never do that.
I am still very much with you, closer than you think!
I will never be more than a heart beat away.
For I am within you!
I am in your mind & in your thoughts!

Now I want you to look around you!
No! not that quick glance, I mean really look!
Look at the people whose life I have touched & they mine.  For in looking
at them you are looking at me!
Reach out & take their hand, for in touching them you are touching me!

The next time you should venture outside,
feel the breeze on your face, the sun's rays that warm you & each tiny
raindrop; I am in all of these.
I am not only within you I am all around you.

Life like love is a never-ending circle, there is only continuation. It is the
time to see not only with your eyes but also with your mind!
to feel not only with your hands but also with your heart!
Then we shall be closer still! As you see what I see & feel what I feel!
You will know that I am still with you and still love you as much as ever!

Follow Ibby On Her Travels

Footprint

One step imprints
The tread defined
By two good souls
Forever aligned
As they journey
Joyous and unconfined,
Walking forward
To leave behind
Their footprint
On my heart.

(August 2001)

Written for Linda & Peter
as they left for AUS & N.Z.

The Healing Sanctuary

at the
N.F.S.H.
Cirencester Conference
September 1999

Music of angels' footfalls
Delivering soothing balm,
Restoring and refreshing
The jewel of inner calm,
As incense curls aromas
Around about the scene
All swallowed in peacock's colours;
Indigo, turquoise and green.
A womb of meditation
Where a single candle's flame
Holds the reins on /Here and Now,
That the rush of Time be tame
In one eternal moment
To touch Forever and feel
Blessings of tranquility
To enlighten and so seal
The Sanctuary's healing
All encompassing the whole
From the aura's outer edge
To the marrow of the soul.

(February 2000)

A Memory Of Ellison

Sitting quietly, off to one side.
Timid, warm and gently aware
Of a small child at the foot of her chair
Sheltering in a little ring of calm
It has found surrounding her there.
The party continues. . .
Her laughter comes easily,
Loving to be teased
And giving as she gets,
The more so as the wine flows,
Her finger a wag with mock admonishments
Softly spoken but firmly put.

I loved to make her laugh
Her laughter
Her smile
My joy

(6th October 1993)
Ellison was cremated the next day
God Bless Her

A Man of Changes, A Man of Loss

(THE WIDOWER)
 
Had he fallen
He might have been saved,
But he did not fall,
He merely swayed.
Fear is rigid
While sorrow flows
And where the fine line rests
It was fear he chose.
Or did he choose?
Had the choice been his
To precede Hope's dying breath
With Moira's precise and stealing kiss?
And for Hope's passing
Had he not worn a black band
Too quickly concealed
By his new bride's hand,
Who's envy, denying
The sanctuary og grief,
Lost him Despaire
Which lost him Belief.
 
Moira pronounced Hope
Null and void.
Her memory dead,
Her presence destroyed.
The slop and scrape
Of mop and pail
Rid a life
Of all detail.
A harsh brush scoured
The household clean.
Nothing of Hope
Had ever been.
No lover's eye
Could he now find,
Where mirrored hearts
Had souls entwined.
No silken thread
That weaves love's braid
Where Joy had laughed
And pain had prayed.
No corner, shadow,
Trail or trace.
Where, why and how
Had he lost this place?
The question hovered
Too afraid to be asked
In the blaze of derision
Moira unmasked.
Though it begged an answer
Across a starch-cloth sea,
The opposing shore
Refused its plea,
Settign down her fork
And bone handles knife
To dab at the corners
Of her victim's life.
By pernicious slant
And dainty slight,
She cliched his loyalty
With all her might.

At Hope's crossing
Moira came.
Moira, La Mort,
Death was her name.
The silent sweeping,
The rush and glide,
The arc of her blade
To his blind side
She scythed accusations
Instilling disgrace.
Askance implications
Were common place.
For his previous life
He must atone,
Its shame exemplary.
Its discrepancies known.
Her case against him
Impeccably built
On impending betrayal
By former guilt.
His fear and failure
Rose to enhance
The yellow flame
In her preditory glance.
She then devoured,
Craven eyed,
The strengths and virtues
She so despised.
Afeared, confused,
Deceived, distraught,
He could not see
That he'd been caught,
But looked to Moira
To help redeem
His total loss
Of self-esteem.
She who invades
Does not recede.
No part of him
Would she concede.
A past dismanttled
Day for a day,
By strange default
Just spilled away
To leave a man
And all he had seen
Barely believing
He had ever been.
Now so powerless
Where once so bold.
Where once so fervent
Now so cold.
No Faith nor Comfort
Could disarm
The hoods and blindfolds
Of Moira's harm.
Insight to ashes,
Instincts to dust,
No passion, no dream,
No vision, no trust.
He blamed himself
For all he had lost,
This lifelessness
He thought the cost.
Life's lustre
By Hope begotten,
Now humourless
And long forgotten.
Life's clear essence
By Hope blessed,
Now grey as granite
And put to rest.
His history's removal,
His spirit's dispersion,
All, relinquished
To Moira's coercion.
The coin had landed,
He'd lost the toss.
Heads for changes,
Tails for loss.

He had fallen
He might have been saved,
But he did not fall,
He merely swayed.
Fear is rigid
While sorrow flows
And where the fine line rests
It was fear he chose.
Or did he choose?
Had the choice been his?

(December 1990)