John Greening: Two Poems

Black Poplars

Whereas we are of here, and have been

from the start, our cages made of hearts,

and in our heartwood chest we carry

manuscripts of psalms they used to sing

though we remember only Cut me

green and keep me dry. We number but

a thousand yet we can raise our voice

above a whisper when there’s need, and

“no other native tree can compare”

the man said, whose production of leaves

was above average. Energy

is our theme. We watch the runners pass,

the rowers and racers, and know Zeus

punished that chariot-driver, but

rewarded his siblings by turning

them into us. The lesson is, don’t

hurry, lean, whisper, allow yourself

once in a while to lose your head, re-

doubling, re-rooting, harbour your best

resources for the moment you reach

whatever underworld you are now

(in a slow turning of the wind, look)

beginning to descend into, with

hopelessness, but with Hercules too.

John Greening

Closure

A cyclist enters

this strip-lit tunnel

like the ghost of a flash

in the windows

of the last ever train

to Penicuik.

*

The Pentland Hills

go steaming

towards the past

without rails,

but with a chuff

from a deep gorge.

*

There Scissorhands

is sitting on a pipe

eyeing your industry:

that line about leaves

falling and sleepers

made into steps.

*

You whistle through,

until green returns

at a platform of grass

and hart’s tongue

who have grown

patient, waiting.

John Greening