for victory, or love, or New Year’s Eve,

in the Raven and the Bird in Hand,

the Golden Eagle, the Kingfisher, the Dove.

I saw him grieve, or mourn, a shadow at the bar

in the Falcon, the Marsh Harrier, the Sparrow Hawk,

the Barn Owl, Cuckoo, Heron, Nightingale;

a pint of bitter in the Jenny Wren

for my green man, alone, forlorn, John Barleycorn.

Britain’s soul, as the crow flies so flew he.

I saw him in the Hollybush, the Yew Tree,

the Royal Oak, the Ivy Bush, the Linden.

I saw him in the Forester, the Woodman.

He history, I saw him in the Wellington, the Nelson,

Greyfriars Bobby, Wicked Lady, Bishop’s Finger.

I saw him in the Ship, the Golden Fleece, the Flask,

the Railway Inn, the Robin Hood and Little John,

my green man, legend strong, re-born, John Barleycorn.

Scythed down, he crawled, knelt, stood.

I saw him in the Crow, Newt, Stag, all weathers,

noon or night. I saw him in the Feathers, Salutation,

Navigation, Knot, the Bricklayer’s Arms, Hop Inn,

the Maypole and the Regiment, the Horse and Groom,

the Dog and Duck, the Flag. And where he supped,

the past lived still; and where he sipped, the glass brimmed full.

He was in the King’s Head and Queen’s Arms, I saw him there,

green man, well-born, spellbound, charming one, John Barleycorn.

Hive

All day we leave and arrive at the hive,

concelebrants. The hive is love,

what we serve, preserve, avowed in Latin murmurs

as we come and go, skydive, freighted

with light, to where we thrive, us, in time’s hum,

on history’s breath,

industrious, identical …

there suck we,

alchemical, nectar-slurred, pollen-furred,

the world’s mantra us, our blurry sound

along the thousand scented miles to the hive,

haven, where we unpack our foragers;

or heaven-stare, drone-eyed, for a queen’s star;

or nurse or build in milky, waxy caves,

the hive, alive, us – how we behave.

Nile

When I went, wet, wide, white and blue, my name Nile,

you’d kneel near to net fish, or would wade

where I shallowed, or swim in my element,

or sing a lament for the child drowned where I was too deep,

too fast; but once you found, in my reeds,

a boy in a basket.

I gushed, fresh lake, salt sea,

utterly me, source to mouth, without me, drought, nought,

for my silt civilized –

from my silt, pyramids.

Where I went, undammed, talented,

food, wine, work, craft, art;

no Nile, nil, null, void.

I poured, full spate, roared,

voiced water, calling you in from dust, thirst, burn,

to where you flourished; Pharaoh, firstborn …

now Cleopatra’s faint taste still on my old tongue.

Water

Your last word was water,

which I poured in a hospice plastic cup, held

to your lips – your small sip, half-smile, sigh –

then, in the chair beside you,

fell asleep.

Fell asleep for three lost hours,

only to waken, thirsty, hear then see

a magpie warn in a bush outside –