One moon, many shapes
nightly changing through August
many moons, one self.
The holiday air
is cool, like flasked juice - I walk
the sea-wall again:
gulls on warm air-drafts
glide still in stretch-winged ballet,
banner trailing plane.
Headlines in black and white, news -
a rasped flute happening -
the thermal cameras needed
for hidden earthquake victims.
This writing, a phase,
waxing lyrical, waning,
breathing in and out -
a tin-whistle player flauts
for copper and silver coins;
his breath makes music.
The miniature railway
is a great way to travel.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
It was a piece of plastic heaven,
My Kodak Brownie 127,
A ten-year-old’s quite grown-up toy
To bring delight and to annoy.
I loved to hold it, point and shoot
At everything from head to boot.
It was my I-pod and my air-guitar,
Without a film, I could click thin air.
And then one day I pointed it
Towards a stranger’s open door,
As we climbed the little seaside street.
Exploding like a keg of powder,
Out came the outraged occupant
With every right to rage and rant.
My father joined in to tell me off:
The opposite of Muzzeltov!
I’d stumbled at a tender age
On danger. Though all the rage,
The tempting trinkets of technology,
Seeming the perfect boredom remedy –
Those natty things will do you harm
Unless you stay completely calm:
No quicker way to burst your bubble
Than get yourself in camera trouble!