APRIL POETS

TO BE SAVED ONE MUST FALL AND TO FALL IS TO BE SPENT

By

Andrew Boobier

What’s written has yet to be spoken. That’s the mysterium.

The blast furnace is seeping through its cosseted block and polonium

clouds are sexing up a disappointed sky.

The wind’s turned and autumn’s child is burning hairs off lazy bees;

scintillas of white smoke plume and dissipate in a perfume of wormwood

and orange peel as hushed trees crowd round the dying embers.

We are miles away in our high gardens talking about ‘love’

and how we’ll miss the word when it’s gone. Everyone laughs (it’s ironic!)

and another round of tea is brought on silver trays.

No-one speaks about what’s going on in the forest below.

Not since the soldiers left, shredding their enemies into the shaded

unwalked pathways where only mushrooms, and not a single thought,

might grow.

CONSIDER THIS OUR LOVE 

By

Andrew Boobier

a knife

with a bone handle

left on the kitchen table.

Who between us

has the guts

to pick it up

and slit

the chicken’s throat

to appease

our unappeasable god?