1.
The Old Fox.
The chiming of the chapel bells
sounds like the music of Caliban
to the ears of the Sunday fox.
He sniffs the air for tang of hounds
shouldering their litheness through
bracken and hedgerows
under the hefty shadows of the horses;
the men the colour of blood.
But this morning the air is as fresh
as it can be,
only the scent of willow and herb,
the distant odour of grazing cows;
and from the village, so calm and settled,
the Sunday morning sting of incense
that sometimes accompanies the morning
bells.
High over the steeple, an indistinct cloud
is perhaps a veiled threat of incoming rain,
a reminder that spring, the most volatile
season,
is marked with the tears that drenched Golgotha.
Now feeling a little less uneasy
the fox turns away up a track hedged
with thorns.
For a few more hours he can stalk his
prey
safe in the itch of his skin.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 8th. - 28th. - March 1st. - 2nd. 2017.
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2.
Russian Summer Holiday,
The grey bearded man is very fat,
His paunch the size of a whiskey barrel.
A quartet of girls sway in a circle,
The steps of the dance their prime concern.
If his feelings get hurt they wont give a damn;
Their somnambulant grace weaves a delicate pattern.
Sand smothers their legs in tobacco yellow
As they sail on the drift of self hypnoses.
Down by the farm beside the seashore
A fox lies in wait for the farmhands to sleep,
And the sun turns the ocean to molten iron
As it sets behind the jet black hill.
The quartet of girls wander home together.
The grey bearded man glares up at the moon.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 24th. - February 8th. 2016.
February 28th. 2017.
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