for the man who has everything�
Diazepam

foil for the thrust and parries
of banner headlines

her bird-like hand
brushing crumbs off his cheek

in a similar fix many years ago
Napoleon took to positioning his guns

further and further towards his flanks
he called this an arc of fire

a rather morbid embrace
but one that probably spared more lives than it took

I am sure we can all empathise
with that hand in his jacket

but when the doctors asked me why I kept falling
I blinked at them like a horse being whipped

something about tall men
predisposes some to certain assumptions

and I am too often asked to wait in small rooms
with no explanation or clear line of retreat

in midnight wards there is a certain strut
more intimidating than any goose step

more electric than spring dew on a battlefield

Condottieri    

they have polished their armour
until it is smooth as alabaster
the sun seeks it out
like a one-eyed lover

they are lulled by the whisper
of running water
in the trees the wind makes paper
so thin a thought could tear it

halfway towards conquering
the mysterious acre
the fallow land between
earth and sky

they are stopped by a skylark
rending the air
as though its wings had become
heavy as hands

as though the whisper of their scythes
had woken the snakes in the long grass
the ones who never dream
who believe the sky is a bird, a timid creature

giving birth like a mirror