The annual lie

For a long time
I have wanted to dispense with my birthday.
It is a lie.
The colour of my hair is a lie too.
And the wrinkling of my skin.

I am the victim of a merciless conspiracy
between the inadequacies of cell replacement
and the cold counting mechanisms of solar system orbits.

I am still young.
I play, I wonder, I believe.
Innocence is still hopeful, still ashamed of wrong.
Cynicism is still largely locked away in the brown
bottle with a child proof lid and "Poison" on the label.

But life flows like a river in flood.
The earth spins relentlessly,
Night and day flash by and, swept before them,
Seasons brush the months away.

I plan to learn new things.
I plan to invest in friendships
but time sidesteps the good intentions
and work, the parasite of time,
steals the rest away.

So here I am,
wondering how to respond when people ask
"What do you want for your birthday?" and
" It's a big one this year, isn't it?"

It's hard to say what I really want.
A truce with life,
or at least a truce with myself,
might be nice.

And it's hard to say "Could you buy me
One of those sprays that removes insecurity and defensiveness?
Or a mirror with the reflection that doesn't always expect me
To make the first move?"

I would like to rejoice in my achievements without fear of pride
and enjoy my life without fear of failure.
I would like to care more for other people
and care less about what they think of me.
I would like my love to be founded more on the basis of overflow
and less on calculation.

I fear I am merely a year older.
But if you could buy me any of those for my birthday
I would be a year wiser too.

(c) A McN

(c) A McN
Part of the Cromford Canal near Matlock, Derbyshire.

Herding

Cycling along a Yorkshire lane
where the summer grasses graced the verge in a froth of seedheads
I chanced upon the sheep.

Five beasts with brains as woollen as their backs
fled as a flock along the road before me,
demonstrating with fluid practised moves
the instinctive art of synchronised stupidity.

There were no turnings, no gateways,
only the narrow hedge-rimmed verges
so they ran and ran and ran in terror of perceived pursuit.

And when I got to where I was going
I returned to find them once again,
and - unwittingly - chased
as they - dimwittingly - ran
the whole course again.

I wondered how often we,
like sheep, exhaust ourselves
with fleeing from the things that cause us fear
from loneliness,
from memories,
from anxieties,
from haunting thoughts.

Perhaps we should stop on the verge side now and then,
letting the monsters draw nearer
in the hope that if we stand calm and fearless as they come
they will pass us by
...this time.

(c) A McN

Sleeping out

Sleeping out
on a night of soft rain,
I walked into the twilight moor,
into the maze of gorse and bracken, birch and fir.

Foals were silhouettes of shade
twitching in the
silent shadows of a mare.
I walked with reverent stillness there.

The night fell, the wind rose,
Tumbling the sky breath over the sleeping trees,
Birch leaves trembled, black as the ace of spades,
I made my bed beneath their shade..

Slowly, fear of the unknown night subsides,
a territoriality evolves,
my tree, my bush, this nest where I belong.
In the dark I listen to the haunting nightjar song.

Sleep was fitful but the air sank deep
The night-sharp scents drill down
Tingling the stagnant layers of the lungs
Between the hissing showers a half moon hung.

An interplay of light and shade,
Showers and moonlight, filled the fitful hours.
Stiff limbs, but a loosened mind uncoiled in curdled dreams and thought.
And peace was found where it was sought.


(c) A McN