Poem 242

And round and round we go … you’d have to say that someone who could look at the prospect of a day like this has more than a touch of the depressive about them – counting the markers echelons and waves of breach and invasion before they can lose themselves once more in unconscious night (and rebuild their citadel) … or are these meals and breaks just the normal rungs on the ladder of getting another working day done so as to get to the weekend …

… I enjoy the ironic distance and difference between seizing the day and sieging or being besieged by it …

( leaping, crackling, squirming, the first verse has a great sense of movement … then I like the way the skirmishing and clangour at the foot of the castle becomes, as we look further back through the ranked armies, a hubbub of eager expectancy straining at the leash then intent strategic positioning then (most chilling) absolutely still and silent dispassionate waiting … )

Siege The Day

Leaping like a blood-sprung shadow
from the catapult
the sun crackles over the battlements
to set fire to all within
daylight arrows squirm
through the slits

outside
five armies are drawn up breakfast
already assailing the walls 
with stones and engines
morning tea eager to be in
lunch behind manoeuvering
into battle plan
                            afternoon tea
then far out on the plain
under the shadow of the hills
dinner
organised and silent

but beyond
around the rim of the world
marshalled as deep as the ocean
and so distant that only I
in the highest tower can perceive

stand the endless phalanxes
of sleep