Skull of a young man

Where the eyes had been
A blindfold covered

A last tuft of hair
Bound like a motherŐs hand
Across his brow.


What a performance she gave,
Sweeping wrists, painted fuschia nails.
Curved arcs, in swirling sails to make us trust her.
Straw words, whirled in the wind for all to grasp.
Space punctuated with open palms,
But going nowhere in the swish of air.

Birds on the wire

My father tried to explain,
birds were never electrocuted.
I saw only musical quavers,
heard the static b-u-z-z
of unearthed song.

         © John Greeves 2004