Siskin, Sister and kin Siskin, Whiskin, Siskie, Whiskie, Pusskin, Whooshkin, Our names tumbling, adoring, Affectionate, light-filled as your fur. Your fur: White, personal-warm, soft, gleaming Bright as sunlit snow, Fragrant as woods, Thick for losing stroking fingers. We met across the species divide And found you wanting nothing But a simple ride: Food, warmth, affection, A sill to look at the moon, Your rent a display of content and for a stroke or a comb a purr of entitlement. Purrkin, Softkin, Sleepkin Where are you now? Siskin of the large vocabulary Meaow became hellos through the night: Hallooow Ha-a-lloo-aw, “Siskin: Shushkin.” Then through the day finding a lapkin yes, there, purrfect Yes, risk a hand below Siskin loving thiskin then whizkin, time to go. And feed me now, Naow, Siskies biscies I mean it, Na-OW Not long a hungrykin, Oh tubkin, pudkin Where are you now? Siskin friskin in the sunkin, Exposing your tumkin. Siskin risking shitting in the seed bed, “Siskin Stansfeld: No-oh, ahoy, no-oh.” Increasingly deafkin Coming in grubkin and rubkin, But always lubkin. Siskin, dear siskin Where are you now? We buried you among oak roots In a picnic basket With your wind-up mouse For the kitten in, And a sprig of lavender, Blood weeping from your nose But your fur still warm, Shining on, glosskin Oh siskin, misskin, final kisskin, Where are you now? Siskin of the no worries kin No future or pastkin Relaxing in each moment you were in Siskin, blisskin You live on in your teaching.
Someone has sprinkled shining mosaic fragments in the car park. Om.
Gentling myself out of the frame, and back to: translucent witness.
Panning for some peace ... rivers pass through ... but no gold. Drop the pan! It's here!
My ego's playing: "making sandcastles". The sea: sweeps in, shushing smooth.
With acknowledgements to Alfred, Lord Tennyson (who wrote the initial poem about the disastrous charge of the light brigade in the battle of Balaclava) and Julian Armistead (who came up with this analogy).
Charge of the brexit brigade.
1854 and someone has blundered,
as is now evident
from the latest intelligence:
‘They have guns to our sabres’,
But orders are in place now
and orders are orders:
charge means charge,
and you do not review orders,
– only execute them –
(too late for intelligence).
So: ‘charge for the guns’
and ‘there’ll be no ‘U’ turns’
Ours not to make a reply
but to carry our flag
with brave and glorious acquiescence
and charge on into the valley of death.
Ours not to reason why
for ‘charge means charge’,
and charge we must:
‘charge for the guns’,
with sabres held high,
Ours but to do and die.
You stars in heaven: sky jewels. Teach me please to shine through the darkness.