Those Feet (With apologies to William Blake)

And did those feet, a lovely thought,
tread England's grasses sandal-shod
or is this mere idea, caught
in wishful thinking's web? He's trod

the walkways of the mind of man
world-wide for centuries and so
to want him here in Avalon
is natural but can we know?

The facts add up and there are years
of His life unaccounted for.
A thorn tree for his crown of tears
is rooted on this English shore.

The rational remain aloof.
"It's possible," our minds admit,
"though only that for lack of proof,"
Yet instinct clamours, "I know it."

Dorothy Pope

Holiday

The sun is a bowl
holding heat on my skin
like love,
soaking into my bones,
into my mood
like balm.

My knots unravel,
my pressures melt away.

I am butter, oozing.
I am apple pie,
peeled and baked and brown.

I have brought all of me
on holiday,
my toes, my tears, my ears,
the whole package
so we can each unwind.

This is meditation,
my mind not chasing plans,
past and future folded away,
just the glorious, sun-filled
present.


©Jane Upchurch

Record Shop

The hallowed deck
warmly rubbered
span to life
its beating art
sent thumping
into wood box speakers
watt-filled copper cables
topping up the shop's life
causing people to nod
rhythmically
to kick and snare
exploding mid range
Tannoys
and herding bass lines
route one
through the rib cage.

Jerry Pike