Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Luxembourg Gardens



Wish I could walk
through Luxembourg Gardens
where I could walk before.


And did those feet,
bare, blue and swollen
from the long marches,
rest upon a mantlepiece,
contemplating the situation?
Perhaps we all suffered
from sleeping sickness
at the fire’s edge -
our faces winding
up the chimney
and out into the streets
from which they came.


The dogs, they howl
at midday,
perched on sweating
heaps of garbage,
heads back,
impatient
for the mad axeman.


At night, they slink
into alleyways,
while the litter
burns across
the avenues.
They watch
lines of people
fleeing like animals
from the hunters
close behind.
They cringe
at the strange, loud sounds
and weep
for lack of air.
At midday
they live again -
what
can it all mean?


Last summer
the blind could feel
the way here,
but now
it is lost.
They are led
by friends.
Their faces have changed
from the inevitable
to the fearful
question.
But what of the blind dogs
who lack ‘friends’?


You say
my hands are rough.
They are lacerated.
If you could see,
you would know
where I was
last night.


You ask
where my dog is.
It is dead.
Things are very hard
on dogs now.
Some of them
are luckier
than others.


It has started
to rain,
( Oh let it fall
on the seeds
within us ),
meaning a breathing space,
time to withdraw,
go walking
dogless,
where I walked before.

Late post today. Excuse? I was rivetted to John Le Carre, 'The Mission Song'. Could not put it down until I had finished. Le Carre is one of the angels and I don't know how he can get inside my head, but he does it every time. The poem is one of that aforementioned cycle of six. By my count only two more to complete the circle.

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