ANGEL WINGS

ANGEL WINGS

blue-grey pen strokes of softly shaped feathers
drifting sensually on a surface that moves
follow their lead,
fall swiftly, silently in line
behind them

there’s no beat, no rhythm to these wings
just movement and the sound of wind moving
recklessly about the non-feathers
caressing their owners viking skin
and cooling the solar glare.

in following watch with silent wonder
are they real? how do they work?
are they warm as clothes?
are they heavy?
can they lift into flight?

and what do they conceal?
a world of questions unanswered
yet they fascinate, entice
intrigue
draw alongside and stare,

at the face of this magnificent bird
a black helmet and goggles
and around the neck a coloured band
of linen waving in the breeze

and below? below this neck band?
the exquisite breasts of a biker-bird.

doughty 2008

EULOGY FOR A CRIMINAL IN ZURICH

EULOGY FOR A CRIMINAL IN ZURICH

There is a small table at which she sits,
a pale cloth shroud over,
and on it a mirror staring
at dark and defeated eyes
in a determined face
with grooves in wrong places.

She looks through those eyes
and remembers
the old gold plated compact
she used earlier for padding powder
to her face, pale powder
reminiscent of a death mask.

She watches the lipstick,
dark red, as it waxes slowly
across her lips,
guided by a shaky hand,
a frightened, trembling hand.

There is fear in those eyes
and the downturn of the mouth edge,
a dread, not for what is to come,
not for herself,
but for those she will leave.
A fear for her children,

how they will cope,
will ache, will feel,
for their tears and their distractions.
Their loss will be heavy
and her eyes fill
with the burden she will pass them.

There is no tear for death in her face
nor for the blackness she has already seen,
a blackness inviting, serene
and calm, so calm.
She has a faith,
strong at other times

though now she doubts
and it shows.
Her wandering mind stares deeply
into the lines and wrinkles of her age,
and they smooth and fill with youth
as the hint of a smile

steadies her trembling hand.
The view from the window here
is foreign, blank, a colder land,
a place not home
and she sits and waits
and wonders.

A bitter draught in an uneventful glass tumbler
sits with her; she lifts it to her lips and drinks;
now she sees the green fields of her personal place
and strides through the cruel, short pain,
certain that where she will soon be will be home.


doughty 2009

PRISONER

PRISONER

his fingertip a brush stretching
from thought to palette
to canvas

he observes an image
of past memory vague lifting into view
a tear from his eye

she is there moved from vision
to coloured sense
her scent her look her taste

the brush tip bends gently
releasing her
and she whispers his name

stares back at his face
he stretches again to lift her features
into this reality

her presence before him now
dissolving his eyes
his fingers caress her lips to open

created in his cell
she is un-gaoled
the box he opened is empty.


doughty 2008