Sunday, 25 October 2009


The gay parade of gobstopper-coloured
cars rolls slowly past the dais.

The man we now call Mister President,
smiles and takes off his ray-bans,

in a rare and generous gesture,
before retiring into Government House,

which we are still learning to call
the Presidential Palace.

Soldiers march in furious solemnity,
their guns bruising their bony young shoulders.

On the horizon a cloud of locusts
approaches, with its own

political agenda.

Come To Me Singing

Come to me singing:
the buds will open to you
the birds sing with you
& all the sky ringing.

Come to me dancing:
the breeze will play round you
with sunlight all crowned you,
day beauty enhancing.

Come when you will,
I’ll open the catch to you,
lift up the latch to you
silent & still.

Wednesday, 14 October 2009


wistful mazurka
white wrists arched
over the piano keys

sun-heavy garden
bees in the flowers
burdened with sweetness
not their own