Ancient Lights

So they are done, the seventy years
And now the rapid weeks rush
Ever faster to oblivion.
Familiar names more frequently
Announce their leaving in the Telegraph
But as with wartime lists of casualties
My name could be there too,
And isn't. I am fortunate,
All systems working and
So much to savour still.
It does not do to contemplate
The bridge or bridges still to cross
And least of all to think the loss
Of lovely Her who means so much.
No, no, for there are grandchildren, and travelling,
Grass to cut, committees, watching shares
Perhaps tomorrow I'll go through
Those attic boxes, throw away
Some junk, sort out old papers
Perhaps. There's lots of time. Perhaps.


[c] John Wedge

Scene

Sheep, single minded, crop the green.
Beyond them, Friesian cows, head down
Enhance the sun-topped rural scene,
An English summertime ideal.
The sheep have lost their lambs, now chops
The cows their calves, now bloodless veal.

John Wedge
1993

Glasnost

Dead brothers photographed in forage caps
Smile at us still. Together we had known
The chill hypnotic thirties threat of war
And war itself. Wrenched from our peaceful ways
We saw Dunkirk, had watched the French collapse,
Felt proud that we were on our own. The years
Limped on, while field and desert, jungle, sea
And air imposed their cruel chill.

Brought peace, of sorts - the Russians had the bomb.
We married, blew upon the embers of careers,
Raised our families; in parallel
Berlin, Korea, Suez, Vietnam
Erupted, fouled this earth, absorbed young lives.
But we were not at war. Indeed, our sons,
Aberrant generation upon which fell
No call to arms, could, menace-free, propose
And realise - and this for year on year.

Came Gorbachov. His epic Openness
Engulfed the man, his party and his land,
Yet raised the curtain on a grateful world.
Ironic that, while nations should oppose
But not engage for fear the mushroom cloud,
Their helots fresh-released from thraldom should
Each tribally contest his neighbour 's ground.

Pray God that E.E.C maturity
Should world-wide see the rifle disavowed.

John Wedge
1992

The Great Illusion

Red crocodile of piety
Eyes down, the solemn singers tread
Red carpet to cathedral stalls,
An unseen halo round each head.

Kempt blue-eyed blond young innocents,
Intense bespectacled small boys,
Plump, thin, short, tall - their gravitas
Is only equalled by their poise.

And oh ! Those voices ! Can there be
A truer sound, epitome
Of youth,and sun, of love and joy,
A world without depravity ?

The service ends. As robes are hung
Life's reassumed with youthful zeal.
Abuse is hurled and people shoved
And there is noise. The boys are real.

(c) John Wedge
1998

Requited Love

The small, soft fingers clasp
A grandparental hand,
Confiding, seamless love
Three generations spanned.

Between us lies a world
Of books, exams, career,
Mate-finding, parenthood.
Finale, Overture.

But here and now we shape
A live activity.
We read, play games, we draw
In true felicity.

Exciting to respond
As you reach to explore
Each joy your eye or mind
Adds to its precious store.

My privilege to share
Your life since it began,
Though I shall only taste
A morsel of its span.



[c] John Wedge 1998

Profiteroles

Temptation's trolley glides my way
Evil forces tease my eye -
Gateau, trifle, apple pie,
Mousse and cheesecake grace the tray.
And gentle, yielding little choux,
Nursing subtle, sensual cream,
Pristine chestnut heads agleam
Taunt my will. Can I subdue
The urges rising as they flirt ?
My mind goes back to last night's scales.
Reluctantly resolve prevails -
Fruit salad is my just dessert.


(c) John Wedge


[This poem appeared in The Literary Review]

Break

The playground floods with young. Immediately
Soprano shouts and shrieks confirm a brief
Suspension of the classroom discipline
As teachers snatch their momentary relief.

Much action. Arms and legs. A whirl of play.
Argument and laughter, games of "It".
Some expert footwork over skipping ropes
And balls projected, tossed up, kicked and hit.

Less physical, in corners, twos and threes
Debate the pressing issues of the day
Or tease each other, hatch a wicked plot
To cause some hapless teacher disarray.

But dallying on the fringe a child stands
Alone and sadly contemplates its shoes.
No place in the kaleidoscope for it.
Is loneliness an option it would choose ?


(c) John Wedge 1999