The Soil

She takes out her glass
From her scientist's pocket,
And examines a flower
Growing out of a socket.

Squashing down her fear
Of the scary plant pot,
She peers in to find out
What kind of secrets it's got.

She imagines a seedling
Alive in her head
Looking for light, and some water,
Needing to grow, and be fed.

If it's ear-bound, the sound,
Would be the least of her woes.
At least it would smell nice,
If it grew out of her nose.

The roots of this plant,
Aren't touching the ground
She wonders if this is why
There are no others around.

With all of the other plants
That she has found,
The green part has grown up,
And the root part grew down.

Her heart is in flight
And her brain starts to boil,
What if the plants here
Were killed by the soil?

The East Wind

The wind from the west whips up sand from the bay

The tide grabs the boats, and it takes them away.

A sough from the south brings you air that is warm,

but if it hits the north wind, you're in for a storm.

It's the wind from the east that has the most range,

It gallops through barley, and makes young people go strange,

And if you're not careful, when the wind changes tack,

They'll leave with the East Wind, and never come back.

And that's the wind too, that brings us the wrecks,

With seaweed for rigging, and crabs on their decks.

And unspeakable horrors alive in the hold.

Their eyes on stalks, and their skin wet and cold.

Sometimes there are people, now nothing but bone,

Who all promised their loved ones that they'd come safely home.

We bury them on a hill, looking out to the sea,

In the hope that they look out on where their homes used to be.

The young in town wonder why the aged ones mutter,

When the flags on the rooves take on an easterly flutter.

They look to the hill, then hide their faces in their glasses,

And hold their children's hand, until the easterly passes.

The Historian's Aprentice

The Historian’s Apprentice

By the light of the candles,

And the smell of the must,

I wear out my elbows,

Shifting cobwebs and dust.

And fetching the ink, 

For the Grey Hat to scribe,

But for me to be near her,

Is enough of a bribe.

She babbles and mutters,

As she wields her straw broom.

As the long candles flicker,

Her words fill up the room.

She drawls about medicine,

And mutters in verse,

And her opinions on maths,

Come out clear and terse.

When she lectures on love,

A tear shines in her eye,

But, I’ll never have the courage,

To ask her just why.

When her broom is hung up,

And the ink put away,

And the last of the chores,

Are checked off for the day.

She looks at me then,

Through rheumy grey eyes,

As the last of the sunlight

Reflected there dies.

And I take her gnarled hand,

And I lead her back home,

Where she sleeps like a bookmark,

In a bed-sized old tome.

The Dark Water

Wax and grow, spreading, slow,

Trickle and wend, around the bend.

Gurgle and flow, up we go,

To laughter's death and smile's end.

Seep, creep, up the wall,

Grip the pipe, grasp the gutters,

Up to the highest windows tall,

To parch the life behind the shutters.

Bubble and creep, quick and steep,

Ooze and pour, onto the floor,

Through the window, in we seep,

To the light blue room, with the painted door.

Caught

Caught

"The rules for the black hats

state that if you are caught,

you must tell us a riddle,

whether you're willing or not."

"A riddle?" says she,

"I have hundreds to spout.
For starters, please tell me,

Why do sisters fall out?"

"That's not a riddle!" I cried,

"That's as vague as can be!

I meant like,

"What thing has eyes that can't see?"

"I know that one," she said,

"The answer is, 'Me in the dark.'

Unlike that one,

my riddle's not such a walk in the park."

I hesitated, 

not wanting to forfeit the test.

"Is the answer,

that they cannot both be the best."

"Nice try." Said she,

"You could well be right.

But the answer to a riddle

must fit the question air-tight."

I muttered and grumbled,

but wouldn't give in.
as I searched for the knowledge,
that would help me to win.

And then came the answer,
and it fit like a glove,
From an old song about Esme,
and lost sisterly love.

"Sisters will fight,
it seems clear to me,
when one has the other
thrown into the sea!"

The Hat Eater

The Hat Eater

The sea is too big.

It's really not fair.

I can't find out why things wash up,

or from where.

If I find a skull,

on the soft rocky ground,

There's no telling who lost it,

by where it was found.

And these ragged torn clothes,

half buried in sand.

Did they wash up,

from a far distant land?

And these footprint-shaped pools,

as wide as a spade.

Where on Earth did they come from?

and by who's feet were they made?

The Ballad of Old Ezme

Don your hats, it's time to play.

Today's the day!

Today's the day!

Old Ezme's hunting round today,

Chase her away!

Chase her away!

The red hats guard from such as her,

see them pass in a crimson blur.

Chase her away!

Chase her away!

The white hat has the final say.

Come what may!

Come what may!

The guilty for their crimes must pay,

Lock them away!

Lock them away!

Old Ezme couldn't help but sink,

so let's throw her in the drink!

Into the bay!

Into the bay!

(in a different hand)

But Ezme didn't die that day,

So they say...

So they say...

She pulled out a sieve, and sailed away,

So they say...

So they say...

And white hat tried, but couldn't follow,

her cries rang bitter, wroth, and hollow.

All the sails on the ships were slack,

as she watched old Ezme's shrinking back.

Sailing away...

Sailing away...