Graffiti
Graffiti has had its day
The writing is on the wall
Converging Destinies
by
Ken Smith
The candle flame flickered and bent as the old woman leant forward to help ease the new born child from its young mother who fell back onto the straw mattress sweating, her breath spilling out in a hiss of relief. The local healer held the baby up to inspect it, stared into its wide open eyes, and almost dropped the tiny form. Cursing, she thrust it hurriedly at the mother.
"Go on. Take it - take it. I don't want to hold it anymore."
The mother tried to sit up, pushing her long thick hair from her forehead and clearing the sweat from her brow at the same time. She was now in a panic. "What's wrong with it. Is it not complete - strange?"
"No. No - it's a girl. It's got all its parts. Just take it! " Her voice raised, almost to a shout.
"Then what's wrong?
The old woman shook her head, and busied herself with getting ready to go, not looking at the young mother. "There's nothing amiss with the lass. It's just I thought I saw - something? Something that's to come in the future....?"
She shook her head as though to shake off a disturbing thought, her voice tailing off. She held her hand out abruptly."You promised me a penny if I'd help."
The young, black haired mother in the bed raised herself, fumbled for a moment under the grubby sheets, gave the old woman her fee, then watched as the bent figure shuffled to the doorway, stopped and turned, looking back at the tiny figure lying there besides its mother, who was alarmed to see the flicker of fear in those old faded eyes.
"What? What ?" she shouted in her fear at the figure by the door, which just shook its head and disappeared into the darkness.
The young mother in the bed stared down at the new born baby trying to make out what the old woman had seen, but all she could see was a tiny naked child blowing bubbles of spit. She looked on for a long moment then, dismissing her fears as groundless, reached down and hugged the tiny child to her breast, smiling in the joy of holding it.
On the far side of the village, at the same time, in a great house with tapestries on the wall, carved furniture, soft coverlets on the bed another woman, surrounded by helpers, was delivered of a child - this time a red faced boy, already squealing. He was passed straight away to a wet nurse, hired for the job, where he quickly set to, greedily taking the first drink of his life. Born into warmth and comfort and privilege there was no-one there who would look into the man-child's future and foretell evils to come, or to show the time and way of convergence of these two new mortals.
Certainly not the well paid, self important Physician who had been in attendance on the lady. He would have been dismissive and greatly annoyed if anyone had tried to suggest he could tell a future for this child. He took his fee and left, exclaiming loudly over the boy's sturdy frame, good looks and obvious great future, almost as though he was offering a blessing on this noisy child.
The priest in the corner, watching, said nothing. Eventually he blessed the child as he knew he would be expected to do, and the mother, and he gazed at this heir to a great estate. The mother had pride at her achievement and was not without a measure of relief that all had gone well, and that it was a boy and not a girl . Her husband, a Lord, expected her to fulfil his demands for a son and heir.
The priest looked with a measure of unease. He felt there was an odour of unpleasantness about this next in line to the great estates, but he knew he would have been given short shrift if he tried to speak out in this house about the son and heir.
And the children grew.
The girl playing in the dust among pigs and chickens, running wild in the great wood, learning from her father the mysteries and ways of the forest. She learnt to use a bow, and could track and stalk small animals. Her father made her a bow and she learnt how to kill with it, and to gut and skin and take meat home for the family pot. While hunting she wore the clothes of a youth. Long hose with a jerkin over the top, and leather boots. She felt comfortable in them. It allowed her to slide through the trees and bushes easily in search of her quarry.
From her mother she learnt the mysteries of the household. She helped her mother to cook and care for the small family and took their advice, learning how to avoid the Lords of the Soils - men as they hunted and watched for poachers. Her name was Annis. It meant Chaste, and whilst she played with the local boys, she watched. Watching boys and men watching her as she grew.
Her father had seen also. One morning he talked to her when they were hunting in the woods. He sat down on a fallen tree and beckoned her to him. "Child, I need to talk to you."
"Can't it wait, father? We're close to the deer now. Let's take it and then when we're home you . . .''
"No. Now, the deer can wait." He patted the tree trunk he was sitting on. "Sit here. I can say what I have to without anyone interrupting."
She sat down. She was too fond of her parents to make any fuss. If her father wanted to say something to her then she would listen. She smiled at him. Her conscience was clear, She hadn't broken anything, and had had only her share of the hard won food, not stolen any little extras.
"What is it, father?"
"You're growing up, my love. The village boys have noticed. You must be careful. Those boys you played with when you were small now want to play different games. Be sure you don't put yourself in their hands."
He paused. "And Sir John's son. He is getting more dangerous. He and his men ride these forest glades these days looking for prey. Make sure they don't find you. You would find too much excitement with them. You know the forest better than most. Use your skill to steer clear of them."
She had seen the Lord of the Earth's men with their doxies, and any other women they could drag into the shelter of the trees for their sport, but hadn't told her parents. By the time she was fourteen, the mysteries of men and women's games were mysteries no more. She became more cautious, always keeping out of sight when men were around - but she hadn't learnt yet to really fear them.
The new born boy from the big house, Hugh, grew also. His childhood was spent surrounded by wealth and comfort. He quickly learnt that he was well born and that his views counted over any but his father's. He learnt to ride, to hunt and kill. At fourteen, he'd learned to curse and beat servants, and knew that all others apart from his mother and father were inferior to himself. That any girl or woman on the estate he wished for was his with no restrictions. He was always encouraged to exercise his Lordly rights in whatever way he chose. As he grew bigger he would ride the estates, his father's men encouraging him in any excesses he chose. By the time he was sixteen he was an evil, hard-drinking, loutish, dangerous bully.
His mother had died when he was six, and any gentle influences had disappeared early in his life.
Then Hugh's father died and the boy/man came into his own. His depredations grew worse and, one by one, the men who had followed left his side, until the only one who might have had some control was God himself and he seemed to have forgotten this small corner of the land. Sir Hugh, as he was now, day by day ranged further and deeper into his estates until one morning he came upon the cottage in which Annis and her parents lived.
By the time the girl, Annis, was sixteen, she was a tall, strong, slender girl with a mind of her own, who could live in the forests and hold her own hunting, and trapping animals, and had learnt how to deal with the men of the village who thought in their cups she might provide sport for them . They proved simple to deal with. Having been decried by her razor sharp wit, describing their habits, looks and antecedents, she flayed them with her sharp tongue and they slunk away red faced to find some gentler quarry.
Her father was in the leafy depths, a full mile away. Annis and her mother were working, preparing meals and doing household tasks. Her mother was outside, bent over a washtub with sleeves rolled back showing a sturdy form and strong brown bare arms. She was suddenly aware of being
watched and, turning, saw the man sitting on a horse just at the edge of the forest, studying her intently. She straightened, lifting her arm to push back the lustrous growth of black hair from her face. The movement seemed to release a switch in the man, who urged his horse forward and trotted gently over to where the woman stood.
"You know who I am?"
"Aye my Lord. You are Sir Hugh D'Estes."
"Then you know you are on my land. Who are you?"
"My name is Joan, sir. My husband is a forester. A free man. This land was given to his father by your father after they had both fought in the wars together."
"You have an insolent tongue!"
"I mean no insolence, sir."
Hugh urged his horse closer, crowding the woman. The rider suddenly leant over, seizing her by her dark hair, pushing her head back, and gazed into her face. Then he let his gaze wander lewdly over her full figure, displayed in the low cut dress.
He laughed. "I could use you in my own house. You'll enjoy it. But no matter if you don't. Up you come."
He bent further and took her with both hands to pull her across his saddle, when a voice took them both by surprise. "Leave my mother be!"
Sir Hugh looked up in surprise to see the tall figure of a pretty girl standing in the doorway of the cottage, clad in a green jerkin with breeches clinging to her strong legs, her long blonde hair falling loose over her shoulders. She presented a pretty picture standing there in the sunlight, and his eyes lit up. The girl might be a better quarry than the mother, until he realised there was nothing pretty about the razor sharp arrow in the bow drawn back to the girl's ear, the brown arms tensed and quivering with the strain, the face full of deadly intent.
This was the first meeting of the two whose destinies had been joined those years ago, at the moment of birth. There was no doubt as to the girl's intentions. Furious and evil he may have been, but he was intelligent enough to release the girl's mother and began to back his horse away.
"You will regret this." He was annoyed to find his voice cracking with nervousness.
The girl laughed. "Not as much as you, my Lord, if you do not leave our land now. I would prefer your back to your front."
She gestured with the bow, and the man tensed with nervousness as the bow stretched a little more. He turned with a curse and urged his horse away as slowly as he dared, trying to maintain some shreds of self importance. As he trotted away, he turned in the saddle and called back, "You will regret this!"
The girl, still watching, just gestured with her bow again without replying, and he rode home cursing her and swearing dire reprisals. But he knew the girl had seen him for what he really was and that he hated.
Three days later the morning was good and Annis went hunting. She was gone all day and the new Lord returned to the cottage.
The evening sky was looming and the shadows turning blue as she returned, laden with small game. She had had a good day's hunting and was tired and hungry but happy. She had glimpses of the cottage through the branches as she got closer. She could smell the smoke from the small village beyond where she lived and her hunger became real.
As she got closer, a feeling of disquiet caused her to quicken her pace. She tripped over a root, and caught a branch to aid her balance. In doing so the branch moved so she could see directly to her home. She was puzzled. There seemed to be a large black bird in the apple tree at the side of the cottage, and one of the Lord's men was trying to catch it.
Then she realised with a thrill of horror that she was looking at her father, with a rope around his neck hanging from the branch whilst the manservant was pulling on the dangling legs. She realised that the colour she had seen to one side, a few minutes earlier, was her mother's bright red skirt all rucked up. She was lying on her back and struggling with a man - the new earth Lord.
The manservant, busy with deadly game, looked back at his master, threw his head back and laughed. The laugh was his last act on this Earth. A silent scream filled Annis's mind, blotting out all else. A split second later the man servant was choking on his own blood as an arrow pierced his throat. He stood for a moment, choking, then collapsed, blood trickling from his misshapen mouth, in an untidy heap beneath her father's legs.
The noise must have reached her mother's defiler who turned at the movement made by Annis as she stepped into that sun-lit, horror-filled glade. Seeing her, he stood up. "Ah, good. The girl as well."
His voice was harsh and he stepped forward to seize Annis, then stopped as he saw the arrow point aimed as his throat and saw in her face the destiny of them both. He put up a shaking hand in mute defence, and Annis released the arrow.
In that moment was realised the converging destinies of these two mortals that had accompanied them since birth: he to die paying a price for his deeds, and she to flee the area and live for ever with the trauma of seeing her father hanging from his own apple tree, and her mother ravaged on the ground in front of her own home.
An hour later the villagers saw smoke rising above the trees, and went en masse to help if possible. They found a scene of horror. The cottage burning fiercely, no sign of its owners anywhere apart from a newly-turned short stretch of earth. But it was the fruit of the tree that made them fall back shuddering. Hanging from a branch of the apple tree that had been there for years were two bodies hanging by the neck, twisting slowly in the evening breeze - the rope creaking as it stretched under its burden, throats torn open by arrows. A manservant, and next to him one of the Lords of the Earth.
In a town, miles away, could be found in a small house in a back street a woman who had once been comely and bright, but now lived in a world of her own looked after by her young blonde daughter. The pair were always together, the girl never leaving her for a moment. No-one knew them, or where they were from. Anyone who tried to talk to the girl would look into pain filled eyes and wonder what had caused, such misery in such a young beautiful girl.
Little Red Riding Hood Revisited.
(With a touch of Raymond Chandler and Frankie Howard)
by
Thelma Turnbull
It had been a bad month, well actually a bad year. I glanced at the pile of files on my scratched old desk. I studied the dirty sink in the corner, and the filthy net curtains. The rain beating down on the window reminded me that there were holes developing in the soles of my shoes. Oh, the glamorous life of the private detective!
Only the top file was new work and, hopefully, money. This case concerned a silly old guy who was convinced his old lady was playing away. Apparently she had been buying new jewellery, and he wanted to know where the money was coming from. Okay, she’s a smart little bird with a coat and hat to match, but she’s hardly mistress material. Anyway it’s my pleasure to inform him that she buys all her own jewellery. She buys it after a rendezvous with a Bingo hall. This is one lucky old lady. Well, as I watched her from the coffee bar of the Bingo hall, I learned the language of the balls - interesting stuff. I watched her go bananas when she won the jackpot of a thousand pounds.
My fee for this last case should pay the rent, but after that who knows?
Then I noticed the outline of a figure in red through the glass of my office door. The gentle tap on the glass registered. “ Come in!” I called.
There she stood in a red velvet hoodie, a cascade of golden curls framed her pretty face. Tight red trousers, and dainty little ballet shoes, which were all damp from the rain - poor kid. I knew I was hungry, but she awakened a different kind of hunger in me. I cut off my fantasy, I stood up and asked her to take a seat. Why, I asked myself, did I not tidy the place up?
“How can I help you dear?” I enquired.
“I’m so worried about my Grannie,” she said softly.
Wow! this was a girl in a million. Who worries about their grandmother in this day and age? Pen at the ready I took her name and address. She told me she lived in the woods near her grandmother. She visited Grannie on a regular basis.
“The problem is,” she said,“I became involved with a guy, and when I dumped him last month, he threatened to wipe out Gran and myself . I feel we need protection, and Gran has given me the money to find someone to keep an eye on us.”
I asked her if she had a description or a photograph.
“He is a slippery character. He calls himself Wolfie.”
She told me he was very hairy, and could polish off a whole chicken at once.
“I am so worried that he will attack us in the woods, or get Grannie first as she has to rest in bed a lot. He seems to be holed up like a military man waiting to pounce.”
Well when she looked at me with those baby blue eyes, I knew I could help. Better get out my chopper. My gold-tipped chopper to be exact.
The following week I crept about those woods like the Pink Panther. Just as I was about to give up, I saw him. Well - I smelt him. Baby blue eyes was not exaggerating. He had the hairiest chest I have ever seen. I swear I saw an owl peeping out of it. This was not the time to start a fight, as my chopper was in my rucksack. I would have to catch him off guard. Better check on Grannie.
I arranged for Little Red Hoodie to meet me just out of sight of the cottage, just in case. Old Sausage Chops was hanging about. As I approached the cottage she stepped out from behind a tree.
“ I've got a horrible feeling about this,” she said.
It was very quiet in the cottage as we entered by the back door.
“Grannie are you alright?” whispered Baby Blue Eyes.
If this was Grannie she was ugly, with a face like bag of spanners, and she was badly in need of a shave. We realised it was Wolfgang, and when he saw my gold-tipped chopper, he became a snivelling wreck.
“Don’t kill me, I've not hurt your Grannie. I’m homeless, I just had nowhere to sleep. I’ve had a terrible childhood. I’m a loser! Please help me.”
Now it is not in my nature to kick a dog when he is down, or in this case a wolf. We found Grannie asleep upstairs. She gave up her bed for this tired mess.
Anyway Blue Eyes and I are now hitched. And Wolfie got help from Social Services. He now has a beautiful council house. Fully furnished with a forty-two inch television. Sometimes I think he is better off than I am.
If it Wasn't for the Dog
by
Lois Mcgill
Maureen had agonised over what to wear for at least ten minutes. She would catch a chill if she dithered any longer, standing here in her slip with only the one bar of the electric fire on - and she mustn’t be late. She held the blue crimplene shift dress against her and squinted in the gloom at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. No it would not do; it would have to be the tartan skirt and the blouse with the Peter Pan collar, even though she had worn it to the office all week. She could take out the dress shields and wear the pretty scarf that Jane had bought her when they left secretarial college.
What plans they had had. Mother’s illnesses had put a stop to that. Dr Murphy had said no one could fault the care she had given her – she had sacrificed much and now, when her mind had gone too, it would be quite understandable if she wanted Ma put in a home where she could get the twenty-four-hour nursing she needed.
But the old cow had had enough nouse in her to know when something was hatching. “What kind of daughter would put their own mother in a home? After all your father and me have done for you! Thank God your Da isn't here to see what an ungrateful girl you have become!”
And she would cry and wring a promise from her, and the years passed Maureen by.
When mother did eventually die and the house was sold, Maureen dared to hope that there may be some small bequest left to her. She could buy a small flat even go on holiday. How she would love to see Paris or Rome! But her inheritance had been spent. The sale of the house hardly covered the debts and Mother had left what remained to Michael. What had he done for them? Left for America as soon as he could, always promising to visit or send money for his wonderful ma to go over for a holiday. Oh Michael could do no wrong, the sun shone out of Michael so it did.
Patrick too had thought hard about what to wear. He wanted to show off his new jacket with the velvet collar to the rest of the gang. What a laugh, the old bird really thought he was going to take her out!
It was the girls in the office that had put him up to it. “Make her day,” they'd said. “Give her a bit of excitement.” What an ejit!
Limerick had been full of desperate spinsters. He’d seen them at the Saturday dances, worn down by work and poverty, the weekly visit by a touring showband the highlight of their week. Those left by the end of the night would do anything with you for the price of a drink. Patrick couldn’t wait to leave the farm. It would go to Rory when Da died anyway, so what was the use of staying? Not that he wanted to. Hard graft twelve hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days of the year, and for what? A cold and bitter life. It's what he saw in Da, what he had seen in his Ma before she died and could see in Rory already. Not for him though – good riddance to it. He had a chance of a life in Dublin and he was going to take it.
Maureen glanced through the greying net curtains. The snow was beginning to settle so she would have to wear her coat. She had hoped she could wear the jacket, but her skirt would get all wet if she did, so the old coat it would have to be. But she wouldn’t wear the brogues – in those she would look frumpy; she would manage in the courts. Decision made, she turned to the Sacred Heart hanging above the bed. She gave up a small prayer: please let tonight be a success, and forgive my selfish thoughts.
Perhaps Patrick would be the one; he seemed very nice. At first he had ignored her – perhaps he was shy, but she had seen him chatting and laughing with the copy typists. They had stopped as she looked up, but he kept making glances at her – perhaps he was asking them about her. They wouldn’t be able to tell him much because she hadn’t made any confidants since getting the job after mother had died.
She had tried to talk to the other girls, but she knew so little of what they were interested in. The last dance she had been to was a showband out in Stilorgan, when Jane had come home for a holiday. Maureen shuddered at the memory – the rough stubble against her face, the stink of fags and Guiness as he slobbered over her, barely taking the trouble to stub out his fag. That was ten years ago. Jane had never come back to Ireland again; she had a husband and three children and was living in England now.
Since that night Maureen had been content with the pictures and the odd concert at The Royal. She had joined a night class in Classic Literature for a couple of years but the one gentleman in the class she had hoped might lead to something moved away to live with his children. He had often enquired after her well-being and shown her small courtesies. Although he was older than her, she had dreamt of companionable evenings together discussing the latest novel, going to art galleries and museums; she would invite his children over for Christmas, and she would decorate a tree and make a snowman with the grandchildren in the garden.
On the bus she tried to think of topics to talk about; perhaps one or two anecdotes about her holiday to Portrush, when the sea wall collapsed. She must try and sound interesting, but not pushy. All the magazines emphasised that listening was more important. Yes listen, be interested in what he had to say, ask questions. She went through some in her head: how long had he lived in Dublin, did he have any brothers and sisters, what were his hobbies. The bus stopped outside the cinema with a couple of minutes to spare – he wasn’t there yet.
Patrick never reached Molloy’s. The bus swerved on the icy road to miss the runaway dog and slammed him against the riverside railings. He was pronounced dead when the ambulance arrived.
Maureen waited under the shelter. That way she could be taken as waiting for a bus not a date. She stamped her feet to keep warm, but the snow had come in over her shoes and thawed so that the insoles were wet and the stick-on sole on the right shoe looked as if it were beginning to come away. It was getting windy and the snow was swirli
ng around the bus stop. She took the rainmate out of her handbag and covered her head. She had spent all day with the Twink perming lotion smelling out the room and she didn’t want it spoilt. She could whisk it off as soon as he came. Please come. Perhaps she'd misheard the time – the second showing didn’t start until eight, and the 'B' film often wasn’t worth seeing.
Maureen heard about the accident at work on the Monday. All the girls were crying. What had they to cry about? He was her boyfriend. She had dreaded going in – would they all know she had been stood up? But she hadn’t been. He'd been on his way to meet her, they would have held hands in the pictures, had a drink afterwards and he would have thought her a welcome change to the flibber-de-gibbets in the office. They would have become a couple, chosen a solitaire for their engagement, laughing with the salesman about their whirlwind romance. They would have had two children, a boy and a girl, and moved to Bray where they would walk on the beach every Sunday after mass. Maureen cried too and smiled - at least she had her memories.
The Most Important Question In The World
by
Sheila Cooper
Is the universe still expanding?
Are we rushing outwards into nothingness
Is our galaxy just a point in eternal space?
Is our solar system diminished to a meaningless dot?
And I on planet earth merely a point on a dot on a speck
hurtling to who knows where?
I fear to know.
Is all well with my newborn?
Gasping from the effort of birth
I ask the question of universal motherhood
Does it have four limbs, enough toes and fingers
Are its lip and palette perfect?
Is the face symmetrical?
Is it breathing in the life-giving oxygen?
I long to know.
How long have I got?
Will the answer be a platitude or the truth I crave?
How long will I be active?
Will the end be slow, painful or mercifully sudden?
I am not afraid merely resigned to what I already thought
Will I be rational to the end?
I need to know.
All these thoughts and doubts and questions
Whirl and struggle to escape and seek an answer
Each hoping to find a solution
And lock on to a soul mate.
Existence, birth or death?
It is a wise soul indeed who could choose.
I cannot know.
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?
The Most Important Question in the World
by
Thelma Turnbull
I lost my brother last week. I miss our deep conversations. We used to discuss things like what is the most important question. We worked nights together. I suppose you could call us trailblazers, We make trails. One of the questions was how do we enter houses? Well, we enter in such a way that people hardly notice. Then we start. Our trails are like crop circles, shining in the moonlight. I have lost count the number of times we have transformed a worn old rug or carpet. Boy did we enjoy our work.
If only my brother had not listened to that large blue bottle, who dared him to stay until morning. ‘I’ll bet you will chicken out and leave early,‘ he buzzed.
Now nobody dares our Sydney.
I left early. I know! I feel so guilty I stayed long enough to make it to the hole in the skirting board. I’ll never forget the fly screaming.
“SALT!”
And then the owner of the house sprinkled the deadly chemical on our Syd. All I saw was his shrivelled-up body from my warm dark hole.
The fly laughed quietly.
Now I know the most important question is: how long will I live?
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?
Three in One
by
Simon Rogerson
Three environments are explored within
Nature is the obvious place to begin
Human society has its darker face
And this is found in the second place
Every building has a message to convey
In the final part a church has its say
Three in One: Act 1
The purity and simplicity of nature are there to behold
If we open our eyes nature’s colour spectrum will unfold
Nature’s colour spectrum
Across the valley the gentle meadows lay
The lush grass would grow and then become hay
But for now on guard the poppies stood
Their masses formed lakes of deep red blood.
Battalions of olive trees standing still
Stretch across the landscape from hill to hill
In the bright summer sun this sight never stops
Until beneath the horizon the blazing orange ball drops.
The forest stands through seasons galore
Proud oak, elm, ash, beech and sycamore
Naked skeletons of trees are there to be seen
Until their bodies are clothed in shades of green.
Winter’s gloom gives way to the hopes of spring
Mating swallows and swifts soar, swoop and sing
Early blooms are marshalled to answer their call
See bright yellow carpets of daffodils all.
A becalmed ocean to the horizon reaches
Nothing stirs and no sign of any beaches
A cloudless sky touches its watery friend
Thus a rich blue palette is formed in the end.
High on the tops the rugged moors stood forlorn
Then snow and fog are vanquished in the new dawn
A warming sun nurtures the moistened peat
And with it heather casts her violet sheet.
Nature’s colours of red, orange and green
And yellow, blue and violet will soon not be seen
They converge to form one uniform light
For in the winter the land is simply snow white.
Three in One: Act 2
One world for haves another for have nots
Fate deals some people very cruel lots
Two worlds yet one society
The children in their designer clothes giggle and chatter as they explore the gleaming play area of this pleasant place,
Whilst mums discuss the latest fashion at the same time texting their friends about nothing in particular.
This is a safe and beautiful world of opportunity and prosperity, a world of advantage and plenty,
And yet, just a short distance across the hills is an unknown world which is so very, very different.
A cold northern wind bites into the soul as it drives down streets and buffets corners.
An ancient car splutters to life, coughs its way up a desolate street and wheezes to a halt at a red light.
Crumbling facades of once-elegant buildings shower concrete confetti onto those below.
High street shops used to hum to the tune of every trade but are now dominated by charity and emptiness.
This is a sadly familiar traditional world of stereotypes and deprivation.
Worn out people with life-weary looks trudge the streets of despair.
Once-working men with haunted faces and sunken eyes linger on street corners,
As women in well-worn clothes plod home carrying plastic bags of two-for-one brands.
In this place there is no colour, no current fashion, no smiles and no rosy future,
just a sense of existing, toiling, surviving and heart-felt sadness.
The hopes and dreams of fresh-faced youth have been replaced with an acceptance of inevitable disappointment.
A melancholy aura pervades even on the sunniest of days.
As the edge of this place beckons the grey clouds of despair lift,
The manicured landscape of prosperity emerges on the horizon.
But to those in this place it is simply a mirage of bo
unty beyond their reach,
Society seems a facile whole with two worlds that we cruelly allow to coexist.
Three in One: Act 3
Islamic and Christian forms merge together
Yet these two faiths seem at odds forever
La Mezquita
Massed crowds of all creeds jostle to enter
Inside cool air and dim light calms the soul
Eyes gaze around this spiritual centre
Built form and faith symbols create a whole
In the greatest mosque squats the Christian place
Two toned stacked arches on columns in line
Iconic forms give an opulent face
Geometric shapes in a complex design
Religion with social is the Muslims’ way
Sahn, zullah and mihrab lead one to prayer
And then Christian gospel no social say
High alter dominance makes one aware
Caliphate, Gothic and Baroque do converge
Yet these two faiths so close will never merge
Three in One: Epilogue
Three poems converged to form one whole
The beauty of nature had a leading role
Society seems to be divided by wealth
This world is created by power and stealth
The scars of oppression are hidden by art
How cruel that faiths have each played their part
THE END
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