In Stelloriam

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crab nebula
A Hubble image of the Crab Nebula

In Stelloriam

The supernovas all are dead already,
Dead – but not yet gone.
They flare, they fade – but holding steady,
Nebulas are glinting on
To mark the spot within the eddy
Where the star had shone.

The supernovas all are dead,
But oh, they make a lovely grave !
Now some stars swell up fat and red,
But find they haven’t got the head –
While others fade away instead,
As all the light they had, they gave.

But supernovas, when they die,
They die with one almighty blast
That sings from out the daylight sky –
But even when their peak has passed,
Their nebulas still testify
They saved the best to last.

Brackicide

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bracken

Brackicide

(In reply to the Weeds Act [1959])

Bracken fronds have grown in Britain since the Ice Age quit the field,
But suddenly the Government has said that bracken has to yield –
And ragwort too, and certain thistles, though they’re natives to a leaf,
Are now declared as stateless species by the gardener-in-chief.
Buddleia, bamboo and Spanish bluebells get to spread their reign,
While good-old British dock is in the dock, as though it grew cocaine.
There’s plenty caterpillars eating all the native weeds that creep,
But legislators only care for what can feed our cows and sheep.
So throw them off the grouse moors, sweep them into gutters, dumps and ditches –
Can’t have plebby natives on our fairways or our cricket pitches.
Hack the forests down to make our rolling plains of pastures green,
Then wonder why these woodland plants are growing where the trees had been.

Schrödinger’s Cactus

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green cactus
Photo by Ravi Kant on Pexels.com

Schrödinger’s Cactus

My cactus sits in an earthen pot
All sullen and squat
By my garden gates.
I think it was here when I bought this plot,
It thinks who-knows-what
As it watches and waits.

It’s spiky and green,
And what else can be said ?
It waits to be seen
If it’s living or dead.

My cactus sits in an earthen pot
Where it does not-a-lot
For year on year.
It does not flower and it does not rot
In the cold and the hot,
In the rain and the clear.

It’s spiky and green,
And what else can be said ?
I bet it’s still seen
Long after I’m dead.

From Eden to Creation

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eve & adam
Adam & Eve by Mantegna Andrea

From Eden to Creation

Knowledge has always a dangerous gleam,
And there in the Garden, that treacherous Snake
Would tempt and corrupt with so cunning a scheme –
To lead the naive from this Heaven to harm,
For fog to be lifted and dawning to break,
To shatter these shackles of innocent calm.
But Eve bit the apple for humankind’s sake,
For what the Lord fears is what humans can take –
Just give us an inkling, just chance us an arm,
The glimpse of a theory, the trace of a wake,
The hint of a sequence, the ghost of a theme,
The scent of a notion, the birth of a dream,
We’ll bend it and twist it and pick at its seam,
And build it and test it and lay bare its charm,
Till genome and quantum are held in our palm.

Efnniht

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brown and green grass field during sunset
Photo by Jonathan Petersson on Pexels.com

Efnniht

A day or two will pass between
The Equinox and Equilux –
In Autumn, it is Night who’s keen,
While Day has lingered, still in flux:
So one’s already evened out,
While still the other lags askew.
In Spring, it’s all reversed about
As Day leads by a day or two.

‘Efnniht’ or even-night was the Old English name for the equinox.

Twenty Seconds

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washing hands

Twenty Seconds

        1.
Eeny meeny, counted Queenie,
Fingers one two three and four –
A fish alive and thumb makes five,
And on the other hand there’s more.
So rub-a-dub and squeeze and scrub,
And this little piggie wee wee wee
Index middle ring and little,
Pinkie perky owe-you-tee.

        2.
Queenie went to market
To buy a bar of soap
She went to Deal and Margate,
And Cape Town on the Hope,
But a laundry-maid from Washington
Had bought up ev’ry crate,
So Queenie had to wash with none
But ashes from the grate.

        3.
Queenie on her lone and only,
All her friends are all indoors –
They’re down with spots and chicken pox,
And tummy-aches and sores.
Queenie finds the streets are empty,
Like the swings and slides and stores –
They cannot come and play today,
They’ve all been through the wars.

Aerialatrix

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girl with towers
Finding Myself by Cassia Arellano

Aerialatrix

Skyla McLeod, her parents named her,
Hoped to shoot her to the top –
Alas, the ev’ryday has claimed her,
Clipped her wings and let her drop.
She’s just a loser in the sky,
Although she knows it’s all a mock –
For now she only reaches high
By living in a tower block.

Skyla McLeod in her fairy-tower,
Watching the tiny people go,
Pretending that she has the power
To interrupt their to-and-fro.
But still, her life is not so grim,
When comes her prince, at the end of his shift –
Then she’ll let down her hair for him,
And he’ll ascend (though in the lift).

The High Cost of High-Rise

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illinois
The Illinois by Frank Wright, king of the wangers.

The High Cost of High-Rise

Okay, I’ll admit it –
The expertise to scrape the sky,
To build a hundred storeys high,
The maths we truly understand,
The engineering we command,
To know the stresses held in steel,
To take such plans and make them real…
Okay, I’ll admit it,
It’s a pretty bloody big amazing deal.

But just because we can,
That doesn’t mean we always should,
That competence is only good –
That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t care,
That towers often overbear,
That carbon cost and energy
To work the lifts is never free –
So just because we can
It doesn’t mean we have to boast so cleverly.

The First Bounce of Spring

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orange tulip field
Photo by Barbara webb on Pexels.com

The First Bounce of Spring

Who would have thought it, a glorious moment in March !
The sun arrives early to soften the lingering starch.
Our sensible shoes might be slackened, though hardly unlaced –
And coats are unbuttoned – but still being worn, just in case.
For this is, we know, but a splinter
In the long flank of Winter.

What should we call it – an Indian summer in March ?
The trees are caught napping, the indolent rowan and larch.
Our Febru’ry faces are cautiously risking a smile.
But still we shall carry umbrellas –  it’s only a trial !
For this is, we know, but a glinter
Before the blackthorn Winter.