An Ode to Jeremy Corbyn.

It is the day, only the day, today.
No matter who you are, for now, today
Is the only day there is.
Wherever you are, there is no change, your
Day is just today.
Tomorrow is in the future, and
Yesterday is in the past, so
Today, all we have is today.
Today we may not eat,
Tomorrow we may have bread.
Today we may shiver by an
Empty fire, ashes cowering in
The bent and broken grate,
Tomorrow we may have coal.
Today we may huddle in an
Old and threadbare blanket
By the back door to an office
Building, that no-one uses,
Tomorrow we may have shelter.
But tomorrow is in the future,
And before we can be in
That future, we have to live
Through the endless todays.
Politicians speak, and no-one
Listens, other than the sycophants
And party faithful who wear
The blinkers or red, or blue, or
Purple, or gold, or every colour
Ever known to mankind, and more.
But reality is monochrome.
Reality is deafened by the cries of
Its children, its starving children.
Reality stands in the queue to be
Sanctioned and humiliated
Again and again and again.
Again and again and again
We live through this endless
Today, and hope that one day
Something might change.

© 2ndwitch, 08/10/15

Hiding a tree.

Take me to the desolate place, where no man goes,
And let me sit and gaze up to the hill.
Take me to the place of rock, and summer-living snows,
Where I can stand in silence and be still.
Let me taste the wind that whips the spring-fruit rain,
And let me feel the velvet touch of night.
Let me drink the endless wine of autumn once again,
And let me set the endless wrongs to right.
I will ride the winged horse, and fly out in the dark,
And I will run and breathe the starry sky.
I will dance with dragonflies, and sing songs with the lark,
And in the golden light of sunrise I will die.
Across the hills, and through the vales, let the eagle soar
And carry wordless voices on a sigh.

A single wing beat floats, waves crash on the shore
And with soundless raindrop-tears I softly cry.

© 2ndwitch, 02/08/15

Not that yesterday ...

Ice inching snow slipping
And a wind that whistles
Round the hanging leaves.
Grey and brown against stark white
And black in the shadows.
A whirring and winging
Of birds, gathered greedily
On the feeders.
A soft song of sadness
From the trees
As they wave at the
Snow-leaded skies,
Hoping for a glimpse of
Summer's sun.
As the afternoon passes,
The echoes of days gone
Linger in the watcher's ear,
And give answer to the
Simple question,
Yes,
Yes, you are getting older.

© 2ndwitch, 16/01/14