If the Clock had a Rooster’s Cry

If the Clock had a Rooster’s Cry

If the clock had a rooster’s cry
time would no longer fly.

Long ago he lost his wings
so the alarm he sings

Kicks-off mechanically
not lyrically

Yet the cockerel of the roofscape
gives time a softer shape.

Down-to-earth among the other birds
he hasn’t many fine words.

The simple clockwork song he’s got
is punctual, but not on the dot.

Days which began at distant cock-crow
had a pace andante-slow.

Dawn was phased from vale to vale
now Satan’s in the detail.

Time pecks impatient at brittle shell
chanticleer’s an old tale to tell:

The sun is up, that proud rooster red;
and gently the world’s out of bed.

Green seed leaves

Green seed leaves

Green seed leaves with open mouths
stretch tiny arms to embrace the sun
expressing wonder at their births.
Each triumphant dicotyledon
stands to worship each morning
religiously adorns the spring
with colour, freshness and hope;
saying prayers for this misanthrope
whose wintery lips are tight-sealed
since time destroyed his daydreams
those optimistic sunbeams
which filled his mind sevenfold
when he was a cloud-dwelling lad
in old make-believe ironclad.