Jamie Grant: Two Poems

EPITAPH

for Tim O’Brien (1995–2016)

 

Seabirds at sundown skim

toward the horizon’s glassy rim;

the day’s pure light grows dim

as we remember him.

 

The echo of his name

like a wind-blown flame

gutters in the frame

of the gateway we all came

 

through to find this place.

The teeming human race

now occupies less space

in the absence of his face.

 

The birds remained unmoved

that someone who was loved

should have been removed

from ground they swoop above,

 

and their indifference

converts his absence

into a cheering sense

of eternity’s present tense.

Jamie Grant

 

 

Lone Wolves

Autumn’s rust

in the trees

and drizzle

on the screen

the city’s outskirts

housing estates

with cul-de-sacs

fitted like jigsaw

puzzle pieces

the countryside

under growing cloud

rock cuttings

and gorges

fences and hills

plains level

as the sea

wood fires

in farm kitchens

lakes and tree

lined dams

grazing cattle

with varied patterns

on their backs

something black

fills the rear

view mirror

insects perhaps

crawling on glass

like the swarm

of bees that forms

on a bough

in the garden

swelling and humming

with threat

the blackness spreads

a liquid spill

or something

organic

a tumour

on an X ray

filling the mirror

until the view

overflows

with a mass

like a crowd

murmuring

outside a stadium

motorcyclists

in black leather

uniforms

tattooed and bearded

a lawless

regiment

on the march

rushing toward

the car

as a wave

rolls up the beach

to break

around one’s ankles

the engine roar

like thunder

of breaking surf

the cyclists

pass on both sides

at high speed

each one’s leathers

emblazoned

with the title Lone Wolf

they recede

beyond a hill

as rising sun burns

the last autumnal mist

from the plains

and grazing

high clouds.

Jamie Grant