The Court Of The High Minute

Silent rights seek a voice

that intones release.

And the spent invitation hardens

into a brief carve-up of the scene.


And in that time

the melody turned to sonic boom

each trader leading the way

in the tide of estranged cases

to the Court of the High Minute,

as the last rays of hope

were setting in the fields

beyond the din

of petulant persuasion

to elope with the Silver Service

before the mark on the table-top

was noticed.

And the thief in the night

was petrified by daylight.


The travesty of the Paler Minstrels:

they danced their way along the street

and kept their feet

which touched the ground

on hardened stone.

But they danced down the root,

and grew to be the Ponderous Prelate,

aye, they lost their feet

and lost the movement

in their knee,

sitting in judgement

grasping all within their reach

unable to move

or shift their feet–


prosaic mongering,

no poetic licence

nor breathing—

simply soft.


Green acres

lake and foliage

contain a power to renew.


But in the sip,

sweet-tasting tipple

of managers

with rosin-rubbed

vibrating strings

and humble pectoral pleadings,

let’s sign the times

with a kiss.....


So infinitely tempted am I to repatriate myself

into a solar system where the Moon has shone

its last reflection and been re-embedded

into cordless reign of the whole

of the paved universe.


Stepping back

I reach for the augury

and re-erase the space

beneath the traded template.


The One which came before

is now replacing

the One

which came after,

and we have been soaking

up the residue

to spew forth

a spate of wrath,

rocking lessons

for ourselves

and “for our children,

and our children’s children,

and their children,

and their children's children”





“Simply after the sacred,

simply after the ladenless

simply after the space filled in

the solar plexus,

full to breathing free,

away, away, away.”


And so we took our leave

of the steaming archipelago,

where our Host forgot to enter

our names into the guest-book.

We left and tried to scratch

the emblematic mark

in stone

in tree

in sky

in sea

until we saw our so-called selves

in every place

until we ruined

each displaced process

of Becoming—

as we always knew we could.


And we wandered down

through all those places

sat down

and scratched our name in radiant hand—

wasted, wasted, wasted—

yet knowing all in vain

until we turned around

and saw that our host had joked

and entered all we knew

so Each was Everyone

come to proclaim

their heavenly status.


But the time came

when no-one saw the steam

coming from the crack in the wall;

and some time ago

the stench of putrefaction

led to embalming

the previous summer’s

left-over debris.


I am rooting for a simpler solution.

We can tell the rate of the cumulative effects.

It’s accelerating to a point

where all is caught up

in the Slip-Stream

and extraneous complaints

will be sifted and sorted

into what can be of use

and what cannot.


I am looking at those fields

where nothing can be seen

by eyes which have been spiked

by tried-and-tested


pursed lips

and morgue-enhanced rituals

which re-animate the miscreated.

The odour wafts across at last

and, looking down into the pool,

all is residual–

posthumous price

for casting the line

which has found

a harvest of seed-pods.

The aid we sought

cannot be grasped or forced.

It slips through gritted fingers

and, elusive,

falls between the cells

which spark

and, uttering,

complies with the order

which is wider than our heart



and closer than can be known.





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