IÕm writing regarding my head.
Do you think anything can be done
about it? No? OK Then. Birdsong

occurs frequently in my poetry
(here it is again). I mean,
I know itÕs preferable to stars,

but not how preferable.
And what about horses?

Because I know horses
stand for common sense.

Where do you stand

on the whole Ōbuilding a bridge
between you and the readerÕ issue?
When should I bring in the horses?


I must go now, a stricken antelope
is knocking at the door, one rare,

bakelite hoof chipping the paint,
oversize eyes awash with distress

fixed on the transom of coloured gloss.
ThereÕs a pan of soup IÕve been simmering

for such an occasion. Shall I turn up the heat?
Do you think I might need a towel?

There are always plenty of clean towels
in the cupboard by the stairs.

But the light switch is broken
and I have an irrational fear

of spiders. ItÕs raining too. Poor beast.
I must go now. ItÕs not a good night

to be waiting at a deserted bus stop,
let alone injured on a strangerÕs doorstep.

Consider the shivering antelope
at that critical point just beyond hope.

ItÕs almost too much to bear. I must
go now, there is, after all, a wounded

antelope in the offing. IÕll finish this
tomorrow. Should I call a vet? Is it too late?


A long way to walk
just to stand
looking out

on the fields;
ridges and hedges

furred in places
by a blur of blossom;
on parishes and villages.

The sky,
empty today
but for a few stray

clouds, buzzes
with ghost squadrons coming
and going from the aerodrome

reverted at last
to beets and potatoes.
I look down

on the spire, the spire
of St. JohnÕs.
And how

do I know?
A mile ago
an old man told me.

Baptised and married there
once upon a time
was what he said.

         © C.J. Allen 2004