Christmas Shopping.

This will be the last post now until the New Year. May I wish anyone who calls in here a very happy Christmas and a productive and prosperous New Year. The following poem is the result of a recent trip to the German Market at Broadmead in Bristol. This month I also have a short poem in Four&Twenty magazine, click “here” for a free magazine download.

Christmas Shopping

Bristol Christmas shoppers
walking briskly round Broadmead
to the plaintive sound of pan pipes
busking on the pavement side,
past brightly coloured bric-a-brac
on German market stalls,
past fairy lights and seasonal sights,
the vendors and their sweet delights,
… but always there is more to see,
around the corner, up the stairs,
the Cabot Centre over there,
where Santa’s grotto must be found,
with all the masses milling round,
bags overfilled with things they need,
with gifts for friends, there’s mouths to feed.
Then tired, and spent, they head for home,
they queue, they catch the park and ride,
then warm up by their fire sides,
they wrap their gifts, and write their cards
all filled with words of festive cheer.
Then do it all again, next year?

The Hunter

The Hunter.

I was a hunter long ago
back at the start of time,
then hunger made me fleet of foot
and silent was my stride.

I’d stalk the wooded hollows,
among the trees I’d hide,
I’d wait in dappled shadows,
bow ready at my side.

I learnt the way of those I’d kill,
of how they moved and why,
respected and admired them,
felt sorrow when they died.

But I’d a wife and family,
was mindful of their needs,
I’d kill enough to keep them fed,
I never killed for greed.

Each shot was measured carefully,
I tried to limit pain,
I’d loose my arrows straight and true,
was thankful for my gain.

No longer do I have the need
to kill to keep us fed,
the supermarket shelves are full
of meat that’s all blood red.

But blood is still on someone’s hands,
though we don’t have to see
the herds of what was once my prey
disposed of humanely.

No thought is given anymore
to that once proud, wild beast,
that soon will be the centrepiece
of another daily feast.

I can’t help wondering sometimes
as I carve a joint of meat,
we rarely have to worry now
for us this life is sweet.

And in this land of plenty
where I’m told we’re all obese,
would we all be more healthy
if such death we had to see?

Would we eat only what we need,
remembering what we know?
That man, for all his progress
was a hunter long ago.

Student Riot.

Driven to write after watching the protests at Westminster yesterday.

Student riot

Tonight I watched as flames were fanned,
bright orange, flickered first, then flared
beneath Westminster’s walls
and peaceful protest turned to wild revolt.
Not Paris or Tiananmen; no tanks
but still our students massed and marched
incensed with discontent,
and met with mounted crowd control,
contained, and kettled, faced its charge.
A bloody exchange of views expressed
as politicians passed their bill
and lay the burden of our debt
on those who have to fail us yet.

The Old Roman Road

On stopping beside an old Roman road through the woods.

The Old Roman Road

Can you hear them?
The tramp tramp, of troops marching,
soldiers, striding out with sandaled feet.
The slap of sword against a leg,
the Latin tones of legionnaires,
or a Centurion demanding silence.

Would they have rested here?
Refreshed their mouths with watered wine,
remembered last nights revelry,
boasted of conquests with Celtic beauties,
or simply thought of home,
of wives, of lovers, of long lost friends.

Would they have sung a marching song?
A baritone chant, that chased away the miles,
or heaped praise on Caesar.
Perhaps their hearts were heavy?
Marching against uprising Iceni,
Boudicca’s battalions rebelling.

Did they march this way when they left?
Returned to Rome, to their homes.
Four centuries of marching feet
have passed along this ancient path
This leafy lane between the trees
that echoes only to the breeze.

I think they still march on this road,
march through the centuries unseen
on cobble stones that are long gone,
and in the whisper of the wind,
sandaled feet are still marching,
marching, marching…