Three Poems
by
John Welch
IN THE STREETS
Habitual insolence the streets encourage:
Flexing the muscles before daybreak
The ones little used, then passed by hands
Over the flat and the vertical areas
Gazing into the eyes of approaching motorists
Who gnaw the wheel accommodating miles...
The muscle halts by here
In
its cultivated rags mid splinters
Of the valuable flask, lapsed cloths of sunlight
Being calm under an always turning heel.
I am the wax archangel and the
Catalogue of cars, the useless rain
Leans inward past impenetrable churches,
Stone valves blackening down the years.
THE DROPS OF WIND
The sunlight brought them out, this bunch
Of aliens, tulips in their beds, striped pals,
Foreign students studying in the parks,
Huddled in deckchairs. 'Ach your wezzer. ..'
Tiring it is, to have to gather
The drops of wind. Yoko was telling us
About the cherry trees in her land.
Fractured grace and lyric wind
Still proved bothersome. The Underground
Was full of songsters whistling to guitars.
The clouds glowed darkly. Later, clearing skies
Turned pale blue early evening. Someone's mother
Was bending down to say hello like lilac.
On the wind's blunt knife our blossoms cooled.
