PSALM 51
Sunlight in a valley, frost on the oak’s bark, endless time
Sensations of youthfulness, how come I feel them?
As if youth and age were the same thing
The starling on the grass represents all starlings
This morning in this valley represents all mornings
The day is too bright, and full of awareness
And open when I need it closed and cocoon-like
And not this this fly-tipped wilderness
Whose railway sidings rust and whose birdlife
Is urban, its insects pestilential, and I crave
The safety of the neutral zone where I dream the valley
And anticipate the end of a geological epoch
PSALM 53
I was a small boy asleep on the forest floor
Space between trees thickening that was translucent green
Sent to bed early, alone in the firelight, how, I thought
Would I find my way? So, sitting on the park bench in the morning sun
Hair grey and eyes clouded, wanting coffee, cigarette
The shops raised their shutters, delivery vans unloaded
Passers-by dropped coins for the homeless, all in a dream
And if I were to ghost-write my own life its music might be
Like this moment, acoustic and quiet, leafy branches of the willow
Yew and holly, the horse in the clouds, the orphanage bright with Time
PSALM 55
The light deserted me in some forgotten city
In a bar which emptied gradually till I was the only one
The barman smoking outside, maybe it was the drink
But the walls receded into blackness and notes of a double bass
Unpeeled across a star-hung sky, as if night was a door
That opened onto a tundra, butterflies had never evolved
Summer grasses remembered only in fossil records
The future and all its characters cancelled, ghosted
Your house is a-fire and your children are blocked, targeted
Trolled by some facepalm predicting an epic fail
PSALM 60
I investigated the temperate rainforest of Yorkshire
Where diploid sporophyte generation is dominant
And in the towns, discontent and substance abuse
Aid agencies, community workers, those who help the homeless
Shall be a portion for foxes, subject to market forces
And the consolation of the imperfect past
To the beast his food and to the young ravens which cry
There are no wolves here, not for a thousand years
No luminosity or ghostliness in this world
I stood ankle-deep in sphagnum moss and saw the lights dim
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Alan Baker
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