Trap

I was in a hawthorn,

trapped in its branches;

all arms, hands and fingers

prevailing on me not to struggle.

I was an exhibit in a jar,

ragged and shock-eyed,

praying for a passer-by

where ravens perch still for hours.

I was a storm-torn tatter

caught in another’s stitching;

my cries drifting into the air

nonchalant like dandelion seeds.

In a Bog Hole

The chill scenery of an Irish bog in Winter is unexpectedly moving. When the sky's artic colouring appears, reflected in a bog hole, and I see myself  in pristine sharpness, I am suddenly engulfed in melancholia.

There,

 

laid out on water;

preserved to sharpness in  the December chill.

 

Fluid mosaic of sky and cloud,

Michael shivers like a flag.

 

Evening, extinguishing the bog cotton,

will find him alone,

 

treading visions  in this bog hole’s bottomless black.

Angry

Among the blocks of the establishment

a flawless rise bolted your trust; 

success was cement,

all loose notions were pebble-dashed.  

Now you revise:

the establishment, its self-righteous system:  

how many bodies like you

have fallen from the sides to point the pyramid?  

And how many times did you skate over principles,

that I remember, you once held dearly?