Elegy for a Fallen Craft

(On witnessing a hovering helicopter which later crashed, killing five)

The village clock tolls the knell of past middays,
Offsetting the chopping beat of blades o'er the fields.
I reach my car; look up to where the chopper stays.
Not fields, this cadence,
But space which to those blades yields.

Now shines the empty landscape at this site,
Where all such space a missing helicopter holds.
As it once turned briefly to the south,
from its immoderate height
Above the ridged-and-furrowed
Meadows' medieval folds.

I keep my gaze up for brief seconds,
Then put key into lock;
Sense my own uncertainty, and the pilot's, too.
Landbound and airborne, both in indecision;
taking stock.
Not knowing when
An answer might possibly break through.

The car's engine blocks the chopping, in totality,
And I keep my eye on the road, not the sky.
This is my truth, the ultimate reality:
Detached from what must be
The doomed craft, flying by.

Later the news is broadcast;
Of a search in the Irish Sea.
A Twin Squirrel, red, left from Luton, five aboard.
The vision comes back; the seconds,
They envelop me,
And the details return, from having been
In memory stored.

Luton? The flight path didn't make sense. Not direct.
Nor the hovering over the field. The half-turn.
The pause.
Theories crash in my head, and don't intersect;
A trip off course... a second thought?....
An engine with flaws?

But then the story leaves me, and passes into reasons.
The flight path to Dublin over Bletchley,
And a nan's home.
We each have shocks and surprises,
All in their seasons,
And sometimes start a journey
Not even knowing whence we roam.


So it must be, that the chopper flies away to its fate,
Its space above Newton Longville
Abandoned to the past.
With those of us left on the ground, looking up...
Too late...
Left wondering if any precious seconds
Are going to last.

trawsfynydd, wales
air accident investigation branch 01252 512299
incident report 17007285
d.c. chris

What the Albatross Saw

I ran to the sea, my mother.
I ran to the sea alone,
And there by the edge of diminishing waves,
I picked up a skipping stone.

Then the stone became me, my mother.
The stone became me alone.
And the thrower looked west,
When he threw to the east,
As his hand lost its flesh to the bone.

I come from the sea, my mother,
Where the ghosts of lost mariners moan
That the deeper we go, then the deeper we get,
After skipping and sinking. Alone.

Life and Work

The village has two thousand folks;

The prison's full, with one.

The villagers tell carefree jokes,

But inmates? Much less fun.

I wake within my larger cell;

The prisoners sleep on bunks.

I rub my eyes, and hope all's well;

The prison's healing drunks

The air is fresh, the sky is blue,

A car drives slowly past.

Behind the bars, the time is true,
And days are made to last.

Sonnetta Pamplonese

Stoned sangria sunset, brazen bull breath
Baiting caballeros, crowding plazas.
Hidden fighters slink out to face a death,
As bulls stamp and snort at life's impasses.

Running from a dusted, deluged sunrise,
Pounding pain-wracked alleys, echoed crying,
Bouncing up from cobbles where blood draws flies.
Flee to safety: it's living or dying.

Running to the bull ring wherein all's clear.
A circle, a gate - buen Dia, an arm.
The Crimson sash is as blatant as fear,
When making the sprint, avoiding the harm.

Once more, the bulls and runners chase the page,
As I sit in my room and write... and age.

Clock and Bells

Another villager died last week
And so they shuffle into church
Where sunset shines through glass, oblique
And church mice hurry from a perch.

The aged pass on but others come
To keep the pews at least half-filled
The Sunday School could raise no sum
So it, with no descant, was killed.

The same for Men's Group and the rest
Whose members were a fickle troupe
A numbers game amongst the blessed
Where prayer and hymn scarce loss recoup.

The bills are paid when font is filled
And afianced are at the altar
When OAPs of stock, strong-willed
Are raising funds, they will not falter.

And so the holy march along
And deck the halls for seasons’ cheer
This church is our church, right or wrong
And faith will make those reasons clear.

An Ode to Digestion

(Inspired by a non-fiction classic, 'Stomach Ulcers and Acidity', published in Australia in 1985)

Chew it slowly, chew it long,

As saliva flows.

Let it linger on your tongue,

Then down the tube it goes.

Food balls dropping down the chute ;

Oesophogal descent.

As acid does the chow pollute,

The gullet pays its rent.

The stomach ends this lumpy drop ;

Expanding (fits the meal).

A pause for a digestive stop ;

Reviews ingestion's deal.

Mucin, Gastrics, Hydrochlorics,

Hormones and Lipases.

This is science, not folklorics !

(Eating's many faces.)

Onwards to the twisted bowels ;

A journey through the colon.

Rivers (unlike Enoch Powell's):

Keep those enzymes rollin' !

Ending in a putrid mess,

When all the good's been taken (my word !)

Where the rectum's spasmic press,

Invades a toilet, shaken (not stirred.)

The Boat of Life

I pray, infuse my head and heart,
To navigate each journey's start.
The world puts icebergs in my way ;
Would I not heed the things you say ?

The paradox : a world that's yours,
So full of sailors shipping oars -
Not casting off, not raising sails,
Not joining playful broaching whales ;
Not catching breeze, not crossing bars,
Not chasing midnight's ocean stars.

I've suffered landlock long enough :
Allow me love, and my boat - luff.
Stand by me as I take the wheel,
And steer to keep an even keel.