Barely noted in the annals  of medieval churches
because they were so common,
these two orders were recruited 
from the Recent Dead.
Concerned for their families or friends, they were given dispensation
to hover quietly in the clouds above their previous home. 
It is said they were plump - both men and women; their eyes pale blue.
They were seen to smile frequently,
their voices mistaken for wind in the trees.

They sang quietly, as a child might calm a younger brother or sister.

Just a  man standing
on the bank of a stream -
an April day of dappled sunlight
and birdsong. The air smells green.
The man strikes a pose, grinning.
He knows he will not see another spring,
but he is happy. Now is good enough.
Now is all  he has.

Four muted trumpet notes, the sound
of darkness. Out of shadows come
the booted feet, the banners and the drum
driving them to the graveʼs edge.

Black clad choirboys give a voice to pain.

Torchlight can touch a cheek, trace
fear and pity in a public face,
but echoes fade to silence, and the night
takes mourners and the mourned
in its embrace.

Willows at the lake side are all withered
and grass burnt white against a copper sky.
Crows, still, silent shadows
waiting for the dark.

Drenched in sunlight
the lake glitters and spits
like metal in a mould.

Below the surface
lie carp and bream
and pike
waiting in the cool dark.

The ageing dancer

I used to dance a lot when I was small 
I swirled and leapt for my old Gran,
whirled and leapt for her
but now she’s  dead,  
and I no longer choose the dance, 
control my limbs, the way I move.

That’s all gone.
I have to keep dancing until I die.
It’s not that I want to stop……but…

They are looking at me 
some of them shout as I swirl past

“Well done !” they say, “ Keep dancing !”
and I can say nothing in reply.


I am too tired.