Surgical operation
My tumbrel bed has rolled along the ward
towards the surgeon or the guillotine
to sever or to save the spinal chord;
and hours and hours of dark have slipped between.
Morning comes slowly to a troubled bed;
the hunters of the night find covert lairs
where life tormenters, strippers of the dead,
their pale eyes watching, weigh you unawares.
My cowardice lies bare with not a leaf
to pluck and wear to hide me from the pain
that searches my possession like a thief
that robbed me once and comes to rob again.
My gamin guardian angel saunters in
with snotty nose, bare knees and impish grin.
David Holgate's studio
With windows open,
Sculptor, hammer and chisel
sound out shapes in stone.
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