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The Future Passed

When I was a boy
The future was a thing
I didn’t look for
And couldn’t see
And now the passed
The things not done
Are right there
Right behind me
And I see them clearly
For the very first time.
I’m with the wicked witch;
What a world,
What a world,
Said the brilliant bitch,
What a world we have made
Where a windbag can be king
And the good black knight
Can only suffer the slings
And arrows from the outrageous
Fool, while the
Soldier of misfortune,
Rasputin,
The liar in his lair
Spun from the Web
That we gave him,
Untruths the world
And chokes the west
With his golden gas.
And on it goes:
A critical voice
Is silenced
By a shake;
A continent is misled
Into wilderness
By the bibulous
And iniquitous;
And the inscrutable
Become invincible
By stealing our minds
And mining and steel.
And so we are led
By a godly good woman
With godawful judgement
And matching dress sense
Into god knows what
Or why, or when.

Too Beautiful

On the land they call Linley
That once was a wasteland
That, underfoot, is still,
The frost, being unset by her
Bejewelled the grass.
The near-distant harshness of cars
Surrounded me
As I stood on the summit
Looking south
Being warmed
By her heat.
The bright blue sky
Was the wash on which
She painted herself
And her portrait
Her face
Was too beautiful to see.

Autumn

Autumn.
The change-time.
The living but dying time
of fruitfulness
and listlessness.
Looking back on
summer gone
and spring so far away;
waiting for
the cold bones of winter
to wrap us in its
fleshless grip.
This passing
from now to then;
from what was
to what is
to what will be;
this unstoppable,
unending change,
a ceaseless wonder,
more than at any other
time of the year
sets us in the moment;
in the now of being;
in the knowing
that what we are
is nothing,
an instant
already gone.
And the relief
of letting go
is immense.