The Crest/Battle-field

brebry@gmail.com


By local artist Gwynneth Jones

THE CREST

My little craft is tossed by storms; 

Although it does its best,

It struggles to climb up and up

Until it finds the crest.

It hovers there in ecstasy

All ready for the fall

Into the great mouth of the deep

That's ready to eat us all.

It will wallow there in fear and dread,

With wild waves ever-eager

To swamp it, dash it, roll it round

And threaten and beleaguer.

But my little craft is ready

For the next triumphal climb.

It will win through. It always does,

Time after time after time.
*
------------------------------------------------

BATTLE-FIELD

(We are asked to use the words in blue)

I look up at the starry sky  and enjoy the sense of peace;

It seems that in the universe such sensations never cease.

But we are wrong, as photography shows, up there it is a mess,

As chaos rules, and star-eats-star in a frenzy of excess.

There's ice and flame and pop and knead and all seems out of joint.

Stars are swallowing other stars at each  and every point.

Heavenly bodies swoop off at a tangent, the universe is strewn

With the debris of battles, and many a scarred moon.

Stars deliver to us a sense of peace and even a sense of order

Yet everyone of them is programmed to be a fierce marauder.

For now we hover in a spot that's relatively quiet,

But if a rogue star heads our way it will certainly raise a riot.

*