Poem: The Song-Lines


Singing along the song-lines,

Wandering through the pines;

Through the lanes, in subaqueous terrain,

Stroking the belly of a great white shark, I

Go on a pilgrimage to Crickhowell Castle.

Those castles did not have to be built –

They grew naturally from the ground, like

Organic pyramids – built not for human habitation,

But so that the goddesses of Ivy, would

Eventually have something, to wind their

Legs around – bored parents, their hormones

Torn from them by screaming children,

Self-stylized historians and documentarians,

With their smart phones, and their gall stones,

So we fought all the way to the funeral –

It was no time to bicker – I did not want

To see my parents die – I did not

Want to see their unhappy flesh, intermarried

With car metal.

Out on the North-West Coast,

We went a-whaling on a whaling boat:

But once we got to the church –

That briny cathedral of spheres – it looked

Like the years had carved it straight from

Some cosmogonic oak, some ancestral tree principle,

Vomited from a carpenter’s throat; and

All of our own throats vomited at the

Same time, throats crammed with grief,

That stole our speech, and converted it into

Petty applause – in those narrow oaken jaws,

I went a-whaling again, and sang my

Whaling song – the whole procession came along,

Until we struck rudders with a windmill,

And I was compelled to give up my

Whaler’s song, for a life in a different breeze,

That was The Big Squeeze: the August of late, without

Date, that my face-splitter was taken from me;

Still, we sewed up the whale’s maw, and

Lugged him to the shore, while the gore-dressed

Monks of The Reformation, called out “More!

More! More” Boy, was it a thirsty war!

But, the funeral was finished, and over

Acceptable dishes, we toasted white wine to

A memory, of someone we all know,

And love