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               Eleanor Livingstone poems
            
 
 
When we can no longer
communicate in words 
we’ll turn to them. 
 
See how they line up 
and march off 
crying, waving, smiling
 
into the breach, armed only 
with dots and dashes –
our last, best intentions.   
 
🙂
 
In an overgrown field halfway between
here and there, off a winding road which leads
up to the one point from where on fine days
both the Forth and Clyde rivers can be seen
there’s a memorial to the Scots killed
in Korea; but today is not fine
and warm thick rain which has filled the gutters
careers along the road ahead of us
splashes off our wheels, pulls the heavens down
to circle our shoulders like a damp towel
and as we slow, mindful of the danger
that may be coming from behind, and peer
through the gate at a drenched intensity 
of green, in truth, we see nothing at all.  
 
     “Shall they return to beatings of great bells?”
          Wilfred Owen
 
In 1014 Emperor Basil ordered
the defeated army to be blinded
 
fourteen thousand men, more 
or less, fourteen thousand 
 
pairs of eyes, but for one 
in every hundred soldiers
 
left with a single eye to weep 
and lead his comrades home.
 
     “like to the swift flight of a sparrow through the room 
wherein you sit”
          The Venerable Bede
 
Left alone up there in the dark
the starling would have gone 
quietly, huddled against a box 
of Christmas decorations,
 
a few late flutterings causing 
tiny bells to ring out of season,
the iridescence of his wings 
fading to a dusty black.
 
                    
But we threw open the hatch,
rattled the Ramsay ladder
and startled him into wild panic,
 
nothing straightforward 
about his sojourn here 
except that final mad flight.