Wage Of Words

The stainless wage of words –

Squatters’ rights, steadfast bliss –

Has ten men trodden,

Watered down, in

Less time than

One could accrue.

 

Brandishing a holy lot,

Spartans did their infants send

Rose-bathed, honeyed,

Gift-wrapped to the

Furthest brink

That men could go.

 

I watch you march in prouder strides,

Yet have no conflict fraying –

Where birds might hum and nest

Before their journey’s won –

Would you make folly of those ten

Through bombast of conception? –

Warriors too, there, mighty, fell

And day was wound undone.

 

For neither is embitterment

Nor is the smiling scorn

A fair depiction of your rank –

High-headedness will none.

 

As silent as a fettered horse

Does reach unto the grass

I fear that you will soon, my dear,

Fall upon your arse.
 

 

© kate marlais 2011

Gone

Trudging through this stannic fog –

The drill of morning towns

Cuts as snowflakes

Through mould -

 

And far off as fame –

The abstract search for

Spine and cold. 

 

Fossilised forever-glances

Over sodden bars, 

Waking winds nudge lapsed memories

And the pavement warmly holds.

 

Wednesday evening,

Ten past nine –

And likely for the 

Final time - 

 

Going,

 

Gone.

© kate marlais 2011

 

Henri Cartier - Bresson