I’m not afraid of taking this harp
down from the willow
to sing — though no one
trusts song much any more, or the singer —
and sometimes this harp is a hacksaw, my fibres
pulsating to notes
a living ash might make when carved
my words are warrants
my metre martial
my pacifist slogan a summons to war
I’ve confused, at times, orders
for order, I’ve psalmed orchards
loaded with lush plump fruit and not
the prison walls behind, chanted
Carmanesque Shield Country isles while acid
suds censored the lee shore, said barren
hills more beautiful than gardens — ignoring
the tools or tailings that
made them so.
made them so. I’m not afraid of easing this harp
out of the limbs of the dying
willow to sing, but who can sing, and not become
the laureate of a state
of legislated greed?
of legislated greed? And if my tongue forget?
of legislated greed? And if my tongue forget? I’m afraid
at times,
at times, of taking this harp
down from the dead
willow to sing
in a valley of tailings
the wind
was my ward, orphaned, my failing
garden of air, &
goodness &
mercy
will surely
all the days of my