If my words fail me
Who am I?
A helpless windmill without wind
To drive its sails?
A cup of water splashed
On to dust?
A tired spent force
Making arithmetic with nervous fingers?
To write is to hoe – plant and cultivate
As an anxious gardener awaits
Nature’s outcome
Waiting intently
Slightly tilted on his spade
Watching the changing seasons
And the contours of climate
Mass around the breeding earth
Its torment
Thrashing labour pains
As each vulnerable root
Is thrust up through the damp soil
Driven up into the arms
Of a welcoming sun.
Am I transitory?
Am I dirt?
Don’t ask me to see the world
In any other way
I swear I can’t
Stop the violence
Hammering inside me
That turns my hands away
From being the artist
To becoming the wrecker
The pausing of the pen
The paintbrush before the page
And the canvas
Is the saddest moment
They flicker there heavy
With word and paints
Like a candle’s dancing flame .
Forever
Close to extinction.
.
Malcolm Paul
Picture Nick Victor
.