SCROOGE’S ANSWER

 

But is it true, your season of goodwill?

When it is deemed acceptable

to weigh down frugal men with chains;

for shrill choruses of children

to daily wassail this, my oyster life –

which left alone is growing pearls.

 

Each squirreled penny is an honest one;

I’ve not grown fat on tax evasion.

Your plentiful prisons – they're all paid for!

Why go rattling dread ironmongery?

Sorrows are certain, contagion sure –

claiming otherwise is pure humbuggery.

 

A pox on your dismal invitation

to draw my curtains, walk abroad.

Darkness is cheap; the slipshod herd

wants no crutch to dance and merrymake.

Neglect shrouds every gravestone in the end.

A shrewd heart is its own brazier.

 

 

xii. 2022

THE ONES THAT GOT AWAY

Every now and then, people ask

what bird is that? Post me

doubtful snapshots on their phone –

blurred wings, a beak in shrubbery.

 

I puzzle out the glimpses shown:

to earn a small repute

as someone who may know

is year on year a guessing game.

 

My neck craned upward, seeking clues,

hush-stepped I pause pursuit

of feathered form before

song steals away, the call unnamed.

 

Or – to keep my shadow hidden –

stalk the hedgerow, scramble

through barbed wire. With patience test

a binocular field of view.

 

Or – elbows stiffly propped on knees –

for windy hours on end

I watch where sky meets sea

to mark behaviour, size and shape.

 

When claiming an identity,

note how plumage can mislead –

the only constant traits

are looking and humility.

 

x. 2022