Canto LXII

I don’t know why the drifting ladybird
landed on the fabric of my coat
and stayed there as I shuffled on towards

our nation’s second favourite supermarket.
I felt no inclination to brush it
away like crumbs from a digestive biscuit.

And so it was decided—we were mates
and I would take it to the promised land,
beyond the concrete hell of the estate

to where the weeds grow tall and thistles stand
to signify there’ll always be a place
where it can frolic with its scuttling friends.

I dropped him at the conservation place,
and felt like Herne Hill’s answer to the Buddha
and my mind attained momentary peace

before I realised this area
was packed with spiders, famished robins, hornets,
poison ivy, squirrels, disease carriers—

the damn place was a deathtrap, like this planet,
where young earth Christians say with every breath,
it’s engineered for life to bloom upon it,

when, in the end, it’s engineered for death.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Nov 03, 2011 @ 11:12:32

    It’s so noticeable…the vault from descriptive poetry into metaphysical musing. I usually associate this with sonnets but I guess it’s present in all poetry.

    My Zen teacher would say, life and deaf are the same.


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