burning for justice

the weather, today

overcast, with a high chance

of riots and rain

 

dark clouds, gathering

tall towers and tipping points

enemies within

 

cities, simmering

angry hearts of righteous men

burning for justice

 

behind closed doors, committees

talk damage limitation

 

© Gail Foster 16th June 2017

Beautiful Bitches (I See You, Girl); for Sarah Cox

Sarah Cox

*

I see you, girl, with your lovely face

Your painted lips, and your fiery grace

Scorching the earth with the steps you trace

Oh how we shine, how we shine

I see you girl, with your heart undressed

By pain of joy and sorrow blessed

All glory, and all sin confessed

Oh how we love, how we love

I see you girl, with the tear in your eye

Falling like sun in the rain from the sky

I see you girl, I hear your cry

Oh how we weep, how we weep

I see you girl, we are beautiful bitches

Mischievous muses, and angelic witches

And ours is the earth and all its riches

Oh how we burn, how we burn

*

© Gail Foster 2016

(photo courtesy of Sarah Cox)

Guilt and Shame in the Market Place

*

The sun bore down on the Market Cross, where Guilt and Shame were sat

Guilt was clad in a penitent’s rags, and Shame wore a dunce’s hat

The steps were strewn with sticks and stones, and faggots had been lit

And smoke rose up to the pinnacles where shadows of psychopomps sit

“It was you,” said Guilt to Shame, “‘twas you, that brought us to this place”

Shame hung her head as her cheek bled red from the whip of the flame on her face

“‘Tis maybe true,” said she to Guilt, “for I was ever this

Destined to burn in the Market Place for the sake of a stolen kiss”

Guilt fell silent, angry tongues flicking ire in the light of his eye

“‘Twas you as well, my love,” she said, “who brought us here to die”

Then she fell silent too, as snakes of flame hissed in her hair

And the stench of smoking human flesh pervaded the summer air

Above the Cross the sun bore down, and the wheels of justice turned

Guilt and Shame in the Market Place; by terrible passion burned

© Gail Foster 2016

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love and The Art of:

Motorcycle Maintenance

 

 

*

Cold and careful hands

Dismantle love’s elements

Methodically

The eye detecting

Fragile fractured copper threads

Dispassionately

Concentrating fire

Melting metal, soldered wire

Mending circuitry

Testing, one, two, three

The current, interrupted

Now set flowing free

How beautifully

Cool flux and hot flame restore

Conductivity

Love’s analogy

Motorcycle maintenance

Electricity

*

by Gail

Darkness Becoming Visible; November

St. Mary's

*

For the congregations of St. John’s and St. Mary’s, Devizes

*

Within a pumpkin’s hollow is a candle burning bright

We have prayed the dead to silence, we have sent them to the light

Bring in dark November, let the winter cold begin

Stick the heating on and let the Saints come marching in

There will be icy dawns and fireworks, dank leaves and naked trees

We shall wish for Christmas jumpers to protect against the freeze

Is it colder now than last year?  Oh, where did the year go

By the time we’ve got a grip we will be sliding in the snow

We will remember that November gives birth to the Advent season

And that once the knives were out for Fawkes for gunpowder and treason

We shall wish for bonfires high enough to chase the night away

As we watch the winter shadows fill the corners of the day

We have been tricked, we have been cheated; now it’s all downhill from here

Until we come to rest, at Christmas, when a new light will appear

*

by Gail

Feathered Air

If flame there was ‘tis gone, all passion spent

Men long dead or demented tell no lies

No track or trace remains of where they went

Of whether they were wicked or unwise

If scent there was ‘tis blown, in feathered air

Decaying roses, lilies, ashes, mould

Unburied memories of who was there

A whisper on the wind, a rumour told

If blame there was ‘twas ours, for being blind

For keeping silent doubt for all these years

In tangled groves the truth is hard to find

As unmarked mad men’s graves; weep hopeless tears

For smoke there is, all round us like a cloud,

Obscuring the light of fire from the crowd

by Gail