Painting Father

A grainy photo, shot in sandy hills:

I catch a glimpse of Dad in World War One,

unwounded yet, untouched by peacetime ills.

He smokes a fag, his tunic is undone;

expressing discontent, perhaps disease.

It’s otherwise a well turned-out parade:

the London Rifles smartly stand at ease,

the Lewis gun on legs correctly laid.

For poetry and paint to flow in tune 

it’s better to be lucky than inspired;

as I portray him on his dusty dune

my Lady Fortune’s graces are required

but suddenly he’s here. I feel his breath.

A moment only, he returns to death.

On watching a video made by Isao Hashimoto

Cassandra knows she’s listened to no more

but still I hear her crying in the wind,

in fear of fierce white horses far offshore.

Her eyes are wild, her ragged hair unpinned.

She shouts a warning of calamity and war.

She sees the incarnation of her fears

on ocean’s edge, where sea and sky are twinned,

where keen eyes catch the flash of shields and spears.

She hears the grind of keels upon the sand;

the savage rush and tumult of the Greeks;

the missile rain of rock and firebrand;

the storming of the city; dying shrieks.

Cassandra’s warning is a waste of breath

but contemplate this catalogue of death

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