On the mutability of fortunes

The swifts and swallows
         have returned for the summer
only to find themselves displaced
         by squadrons of parrots
sleek-feathered interlopers
         from warmer climes
whose speed and agility in the air
         brings them the richest of pickings
in this pleasant land
         this vast plate of plenty
from which they feed incessantly
         and which they celebrate
in never-ending raucous song

What will be left
         for the native small fry
we can only imagine
         but that’s nature’s business
and the fittest will survive
         you can be sure of that
Agility and flexibility
         and above all adaptability
have stood these exotic visitors
         in good stead whereas
the locals find themselves
         estranged and somewhat at a loss
brooding in their own homes

A heavy downpour last night
         has left the lawn sodden
but I notice that the roses
         have all perked up
they simply adore the rain
         their soft white petals
clinging to every last drop

John Lyons

Idle thought

The sometimes sadness of rain
         on a day made of loneliness
and absence and subdued birdsong
         the tall poplars draped in shadows
barely stirred by a sluggish breeze
         We carry our meanings in our head
and impose them on all around us
         a world filtered through the heart
or through the mind at the very least
         Nature makes no such demands
Last night a fox on the street
         a shade moving through
the thoroughfares of a secure
         parallel world in which I have yet
to establish my existence if ever
         the innumerate illiterate
world of the rose and the raven

That a poem has a beginning
         a middle and an end
is its greatest limitation
         but that is the fate
of all human creation
         locked as it is into the ruthless
narrative of time

The liquidity of language
         these words poured out
onto the page or into
         any other vessel
a bravura of observation
         but is a bee any less appreciative
of the unwritten beauty of flowers
         and isn’t its honey a greater accolade
than any other imaginable text ?

John Lyons

Language

Habits of thought
         habit of action
first false friends
         :
an harmonious
         instrument
for what we share
         of the power
and beauty
         of the human
experience
         not to say
world
         universe

expression
         of the earth
voluble clay
         warm breath
that binds one
         to another
and one thing
         to another
so that
         all that can
coheres
         without losing
its charm or
         mystery

participatory
         less to define
more to embody
         sense and
the natural law
         of flesh
that spark of beauty
         in the eye
the innocence
         when innocent
the centered soul
         of unselectedness

John Lyons

Exhumations

All that can be conveyed
         from one mind to another
the medium of thought
         that weaves a world
of the imagining
         that can capture
the living breath
         within a block of marble
that can compose a melody
         in defiance of the nightingale
that can confront
         the hollow masks of night
with dreams that do not
         quaver at first light

stalled the decadence
         of beauty by acts
of immortality
         here where the willow weeps
here among the leaves
         that conceal the fruit
life that is ripe
         for the picking

words as an agency
         of love and adoration
the roar of the clear green waters
         that flow through our history
She raises a hand
         a finger to her lips
to hush all praise

time thirsts
         for these moments
it cannot sustain
         even as it disdains
the shattered hours
         of memories
shrouded in sad shadows

the wind is mute
         it has no message
just as bees are tied
         to their labours
and every garden dies
         every rose pales
and only the body’s beauty
         survives in sacramental flesh
in faith and hope
         and love

John Lyons

A walk in the park

That we live in kindred spheres
         or shall we say parallel worlds
the world of beauty in diversity
          Nature pulling out all the stops
to impress us with its strength
         and its intrinsic delicacy
This world teems with survivors
         of every species
with plants and animals and birds
         that refuse to lie down
and give up the ghost :
         the parrots high up in the beech
removed from their native
         environment screech
above the sonorous cacophony
         to make themselves heard
to and fro they dart
         spreading the gorgeous plumes
of their tail feathers in flight
         kings of the pile
commanders of an air space
         they have made their own

The grass is soft under foot
         and lurking in the distance
moving stealthily behind bushes
         the glimpse of a fox
taking in the lie of the land
         a head count of the geese
and the ducks
         and their tiny fledglings
on the banks of the river
         the fox nursing its appetite
biding its time
         which we know will come soon
under the cover of dark

This is a cohesive radiant
         wilderness illuminated
by sharp blades of light
         drenched in shadows by night
when subtly the tables are turned
         and the gentle game is changed
The patient disposition
         of days and nights
in which the maple weaves
         its red loom and the red rose
silently amasses all the minerals
         it requires to send forth its bloom

John Lyons