Coming Home

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Picture: A R Quinton

From waterfalls to stepping stones, meandering
across history’s bones, I am halted by a sound,
the sound of mandolins.

Sinewy and tempered, the strings play their song,
accompanied by a chorus made up of flocking doves.
I stroll and become enamoured before succumbing
to temptation and falling in love with fate. Tumbling heathers
bow and lend to gentle footsteps, crooning whilst retracing
a long forgotten voice.

I rest a while in contemplation and let myself be trampled
by hordes of folk returning, who hear the strumming
soothes of a sound, a sound from deep within.

 

Silken Threats

 

 

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Bayeux Tapestry

A frayed charade is sewn into a bitter tapestry – woven
and spun by the spider that has won a trophy of tarnished silver
not gold, without triumph to hold in its stare – it is fully aware
of the tatters of human nature.

Errors taught to us get snagged and caught on rusted,
double edged swords adorned with faux pearls of wisdom that
are our tears, and which seep into wounds with each infliction
until infection charts its course.

We need only wield a thimble of armour against the monumental
travesties we sew; the deeds of mankind embroidered on life’s
fine fabrics cause dour, interlocking souls to mock our disdain,
misery and pain when we prick ourselves and bleed.

 

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