The Cuckoo

The days relaxing in a smile
Bring to the nervous and the cold
Who stumble on in single file
   The respite of the sun;
The missiles nestling in the wold
Gleam freshly in the morning dew
And, much more deadly than a gun,
Are used to prove a point of view.
   The people as they walk
   Do not indulge in talk.
   Sing cuckoo.

Industrial heartlands after rain

Sink slowly in the evening light,
A watchman makes his rounds again
   But does not really care;
In offices where men are tight
The cards are cut in hopeless hope,
A sales rep mutters, “Do I dare?”
The Sales Director, “Can I cope?”
   The ice that’s in the gin
   Makes a nervous brittle din.
   Sing cuckoo.

A courting couple in the wood

Sat down upon a fallen tree,
Discussed the nature of the good
   While sitting eye to eye;
An ancient woman suddenly
Leapt up and shook her angry head;
She said, “The children always die
And there’s no talking to the dead.
   The fledgling in its nest
   Knows a single, brutal best.”
   Sing cuckoo.

The moralist at work upon

The outline of his latest book
Was pleased to write “Eleison,”
   To which he signed his name;
After a time he chanced to look
Up at a mirror on the wall
As someone somewhere whispered, “Shame!”
Across his forehead, writ in gall,
   Was, “Thinker, dare you say
   What you saw upon the way?”
   Sing cuckoo.

A lonely cottage on a moor

Was inundated by the spring
Which scattered roses round the door
   And cuffed them in the wind;
An old man started muttering
And turned to face the morning sun:
Who was guilty? Who had sinned?
Who the sacrificial one?
   “Lord, save me,” is what he said,
   “From the acid in my head.”
   Sing cuckoo. Sing.

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© August 1980