Bonfire of Certainties

A bonfire of all certainties
has been built under me –
of timbers – by unseen hands –
crossed over and lain
on a cold heart – that core
of devoutly-snapped sticks

The ninety year old fell
and they discovered
her riddle of cancers –
She shouldn’t be alive
But her bonfire was doused –
I’m happier  – she sung –
I have assurances

This told to me as I was driven
by the old woman’s nephew
through Puglia’s stone veins –
I saw my own pyre lit –
and you – my wife –
have to bear the still low heat
of this
the slowest of fires

The Mower

He has cut the grass around Stonehenge
for twenty summers, end-to-end,
ever concentric, from outer to inner,
he pulls out blades with the retreat of winter.

He knows each slab, the Welsh-ness within,
those dragged-erect stones and the truths they contain.
As the mulch and spewed grass build high in his bin,
the circling grass-cutter is again sucked in:

His subconscious cuts to a dream-fixed rout,
knots him in whispers, which the stones still shout,
and so he is sliced, chipped, and re-worked,
to be the defender against the road works.

Cast up by the ‘Henge, as its final guard,
he has been armed with the last sharp sword:
the defender of Arthur, protector of Albion,
in the dream he fills UK Highways’ tunnel.

Under cries of crows, and missives of sheep,
the lawn mower man is then roused from his sleep,
that disturbed warrior wakes at his wheel,
to return to his mowing, because dreams are not real.