Yet to see.

What a nonsense it is,

To trawl the world for beauty

To create in endless factories

A vast multitude of plastic soldiers

Identical in their lost excuses,

And abandoned in obsolescence.

To gamble away our time and hours,

Searching for that perfect cloud

On which we may someday sit,

How we clamour one after another

A long line of gibbering sheep,

Each with our own possessions,

Yet seeing nothing.

Yet to see.


The conscience of kings.

One may speak to another,

Of serious things,

Of thoughts well planned,

And speeches by kings,

How many questions

May pass through the air,

Or drift beneath tables

Deemed coarse or unfair?

Gathered in bunches

And cold hearted clumps

By whispering chair legs

With withered old stumps.

The answers are waiting,

How long they have been,

Yet no one can see them,

Yet none can be seen,

And while we are looking,

And while we must wait,

Who do we look to,

Who governs our fate?

Who sits in the stillness

Upon golden throne

With eyes so far reaching

And gaze as of stone?

Is there one?

Can there be?

We must look to our own.

For futures are distant

When one is alone.

We must trust to our judgments

Or walk round in rings

For it’s mad to rely on

The conscience on kings.



There is a true soft beauty
Stamped flat against the sky
A slight disc of pearl
Cut from the eye of heaven.

Lit by countless orbs
Pin pricked holes in the papered roof of excuses
Once full meant promises
Loosed as straight arrows to the firmament
Punched through, and waiting to be stitched.

You come to flit within my basin
Do you look up unaware?
All round eyes, deep in soulful disbelief
My searching glance to chasten.

Time’s blank clock face, speaking
Of moments past and yet to come.
Ceaseless in your teasing of the tides
An impenitent lover and visitor
Of many a lonely pool.

Bone like mirror of noon
Pull on your bleached white overcoat
Turn again and hasten
The man in the moon.