The View from the sold house – John Stokes

A high, voice teetering


A black and
         yellow eye in a bush
claws into me from red
             looking for nightmare, sly


truths lived by light,
only:  nothing’s imagery of
fright and sinew finds its
own warm use for savagery.


A sudden country, this,
calls of a black bird
can ring a clarion bell
claret, golden ash, heard
over       the Parishes of purple
shadows, cloaked hills
                                    of glaucous
incomprehension, fear greening
                        in benign alcoves


A call of memory, no
             wordless and warning, spells
signifying fruits, spiders, warns,
of a cat’s striped growls
one hope shared among the one
and many flock,
                      the whole
panoply of shrieks and groans


triggering a few acuities of
clear days and darkness, small
flick-locked, drummed necessities of the
quickening, reflections off the bell
imitating quick
                        simplicity.    I
see the black and yellow
    eye                it sees back
              at me  I



am rocked in a trembling cradle.