Art

Enough, enough of the fabled distant past:
all lies save the suck and rape
of ancient pagan culture.

great poets muse,
the fall of light on winter’s leaf
the aching heart of love wrought grief,
while
unfed children, dark of colour
(and) darker of the huge shadow
round gaping hole of eye:
suck dust from empty breasts and die

or, orphaned
by the great parabola
of a sword’s stroke
a cannon’s distant boom.
Whole cities, seared, flat smear of charcoal,
dust rises from the timeless tomb
a city bathed in sunset.

Enough, enough
of the pearl poised to drop,
dew on winter’s morning web:
each splash rivets
an artist’s aching hand,
the pigment dries, the timbre falls
another child dies in a distant land.