Foetus in a Bottle

My first day in Grammar School, I saw the jar,

Among the long display cabinet,

With fossils, bones and a pickled snake,

The Victorian interests of the past,

All by itself,

Left all alone,

-A foetus in a bottle.

Why was it there?

Why did it die?

How long did its mother cry?

-For the foetus in a bottle.

Every day I saw its face,

Just frozen in time, never to age.

Never saw life, never felt love,

-The foetus in a bottle.

If it had lived, would we have met?

Would it be great and change how we think?

Be a good wife, or simply have strife,

-The foetus in a bottle.

If you had lived and laughed and felt joy,

Had children to love, 

And saw the world as it is.

I think of you still and wonder the waste,

-Of the foetus in the bottle.

(2000)

The 'Daffodils' revisited

Wordsworth saw his daffodils through yellow-tinted glasses.

Beautiful masses of yellow heads,

Dancing in the glades to the water's edge.

His eyes reflected the beauty of nature,

But they were blind to its cruelty.

Where is the spider's web bringing death to the unwary-

And its young in turn facing death from ichneumon's larvae?

The world has breathtaking beauty,

But everywhere this is balanced with its dangers.

Do not be fooled by Nature's loveliness.

Man appears immortal.

He thinks his reign is timeless.

He basks in this illusion.

But the past does not support this folly.

As Homo sapiens waited for their time,

So others are now in wait,

Just waiting for the next inevitable disaster.

(T.E.T 1972)

Visit to Fairfields

Curtains flutter when pulled by long, thin bones.

Out of the corner appears a single eye, scrutinising those who enter this world.

Few cross the cattle-grid frontier and the fading eye strains for a recognisable face.

A stranger.

It'll fill a few moments chatter over plum-jam tea.

A large, white button orders 'Ring and Wait!' and the white, stern-faced sentinel checks entry.

The corridor stretches onwards; spotless clean,

Pictures, pot plants, flowers, walking sticks, hand rails, wheelchair.

The flowers fail to mask the hospital smell,

And the aged, feebly walk the corridors - nowhere to go!

Hollow eyes that once sparkled in joy-

Now are marble-glazed.

Hands that once caressed Morfydd Jones in the deep bracken on Pen Pych-

Are now scarred, veined and shaking.

Legs that once briskly walked the wooden slopes- 

Are bent with age.

Now in the twilight of life we pay our respects,

But the seconds tick by.

(T.E.T 1970)

The Cross

A rough, rugged cross,

Three rusty nails,

A human hangs in pain.

A crown of thorns,

A bleeding side,

The sacrifice is made.

A jewelled cross,

Three diamonds shine,

A human chants a prayer.

A crown of silver,

A golden robe,

The church's mass is made.

(T.E.T 1968)

The Price to be Paid?

War is brutal where men live in hell.

Its red colour pollutes the earth,

As comrades and friends bleed to death.

Limbs are lost and fear reigns,

As women and children scream-

A scream that's never lost.

Here, there is no God.

You kill or be killed-

That is the only way.

To survive, your soul must wither and die,

So you feel sympathy no more.

But the price will have to be paid-

Never to sleep in peace again.

Memories must be buried-

As to live one can never face the past.

But would we want 'Hitlers' to rule the world.

(2007)

On the Sinai Front

The victorious armour sweeps onwards.

Speeding tanks bellow choking dust and muffled cannon bark defiance.

Black burned out jeeps litter the desert,

And smoke coils upwards.

Twisted corpses record the mileage,

And armies of flies feast on plenty.

Stenching flesh pleads for burial,

But the sun shows on mercy.

A mound of oily rags, yesterday lived, 

Perhaps twenty, loved and wanted.

Unrecognisable now - faceless.

Propaganda urges - 'Die as heroes',

But here, there's no dignity in death.

(T.E.T 1967)

"Bill, It's Almost Time" (November 23rd 1917)

"It's almost time, Bill.

Hell, it's almost time.

This bastard mud,

This driving rain!

Bill, it's almost time."

"I'm only seventeen Bill.

God, I don't want to die.

This bloody war,

This throbbing pain.

Bill, it's almost time."

"Why did it start Bill?

I don't want to kill.

There goes the signal Bill.

Bill, Bill, ........ it's time."

(T.E.T 1963)

A White Chistmas (1916)

Snow fell silently.

Pine trees slept.

Pure white diamonds cleanse the earth.

A large snowflake lands on my hand and melts,

Bringing thoughts of home.

So many thoughts of home.

A sniper's bullet whines overhead,

And the war continues.

(T.E.T 1962)

The Empty Land (After the Highland Clearances)

The land is empty.

The wind blows,

The mist swirls,

Peat stained rivers flow through the glens,

Dominated by ancient mountains who witnessed the changes,

That made this the empty land.

Wrecked crofters' cottages litter this wilderness,

Roofless, with fallen walls,

Containing only the memories of the past,

Of life before the empty land.

Now the bleating sheep replace those human sounds.

Deer roam where children once laughed and played.

And grouse feed on heather waiting their August fate.

These all paid more to the ruling elite,

Than the crofters' labours could ever achieve.

Their greed made this the empty land.

The diverse flora and fauna followed the humans,

Being driven from the mountains and glens.

The grazing and burning destroyed their rich multiplicity,

Helped by the gamekeepers, the purveyors of death and extinction,

Weep for the empty land.

Its solitude exists due to the the clearances.

The few benefiting from the misery of many.

Their greed left us this wet-swampy desert,

Their bequest to those yet to come.

So weep for the empty land, 

And remember the past.

(November 2010)