Origami Microchap

Selected Poems 

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Artwork by Phil Pattinson

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The Road INTO Town by Phil Pattinson

I and many other people will always thank Helen
for showing us The Road INTO Town.

She was always willing to share her take on
writing poetry and encourage people who wanted
to write (and Paint) and thought they weren’t
good enough to just write and get the work out there.
Because that’s what was important to Helen, whether it
was sending to publications or entering competitions
and more importantly reading her work to an audience.

She was a prolific writer and when the thought came
it had to be written down.

Helen wrote from the heart with humour, compassion,
and above all honesty. She would ride that horse
straight to the middle of town and tether it right
outside the doors of the saloon. She wasn’t afraid
to fall off that horse and, despite many setbacks
health-wise, would get back up on that horse
and keep on writing.

Because the Work was all important to her.
Poetry can make a difference and I think
she did just that. She wanted it to be fun
and boy did we have fun.

I can never thank Helen enough for showing me
the road INTO town and her memory will stay with me
forever.
- Love, Philsy

The Road Out of Town

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Cover: Self-Portrait by Helen Burke

In These Stranger Cities

In cities where they do not smile.
Beware. Tread carefully.
Something has occurred.
Something primeval is ticking.
Be Vigilant.
You, little skipping person, you cannot change it.
Inside an armoured box
They have placed their smiles.
Their goodwill.
And you would need to be an army of biting-ness
To change them.
To send them back. To retrieve.
Pack up your belongings,
Your deepest hopes, your self.
And leave. You have no other choice.

Though you thought you could help by your song.
By your blackbird dance at the edge of time.
They are entrenched, frozen and beyond you now.
Not until the day of judging
Will you be told – why and how.
Dance little blackbird. Sing your little heart out.
And leave.
*
Helen Burke © 2019

Ignoring Instructions

Is the only way to live, boldly
Waywardly. A little wild.
They give us the guide book as
We arrive in Rome.
The way to the catacombs, the chapel
Of five wounds, the way of the rosary
Are all laid bare. Step by troublesome step,
And point by point, it suggests
We head straight there. We shall be
Absolved of all life if we only follow
The do or die instructions.
Instead, you and I are random
In our wanderings, we arrive unexpectedly
At dark alleyways where artists
Sit and paint. We drink wine in sudden
Outbursts and pour ourselves into the
Sunset at every given moment.
Except for the sunset.
We shout Constantinople at strangers
And remove our clothes in anticipation
Of fountains.
We profess to speak Italian we shout
Va bene and ciao, and wave
Our arms a lot, and brandish happy
Faces in the face of soot and danger.
The guide book is a guide to false
Eternity, we have no use for it.
The following of instructions may lead
To death and worse.
We kick our heels,
We take our time, Rome has the scent
Of rainbows and chaos.
We may move to Rome. It may be
Our salvation, our soul’s delight. As
No one in Rome even believes
For una momento,
In the existence of instructions.

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Cover: Kingfisher cross-stitch

by Evelyn Berwick
(Wrendale Designs)

The Growing of Tomatoes

When I come home from hospital
And I have cheated death
He and his chums
have been found lacking...
You say let us grow tomatoes.
But , to be honest, I am not sure.
What will this planting, this nurturing
This coddling represent .
You place the red riders of the storm
In front of me.
They are brash and beautiful.. I remember
Why I love them.
Under my hands, they come to life
Could come to life.
How can this be I ask you, that I, a fool
Of sixty years can choose to grow tomatoes.
But you seem certain that having
Come this far, we can go on.
Nothing is as it was and yet these tomatoes
Give me hope.
Every day the round belly of the future
Beckons me, says plant, nurture, care for.
Eat.
My dear friend ..you should know
If you eat the future and it is unexpected
Be sure to plant tomatoes.
As many as you can.
Their juiciness, their sweetness
Their overwhelming life will bring you back
Int your body, your world, your soul.
Your self.
Come I say to you, the king of life ..of hope.
Let us grow tomatoes one last time.
Let us grow tomatoes.

Let me

Let me lie where there is heartsease
Under a bluebell wood
And only you know where.
Let me feel the sun and the rain again
In that small place.
Let me remember joy and laughter
And how to dance again.
Let the birds call my name and myself
Can answer.
Let it be no more a puzzle, time...
And let life be just itself within our
Ticking grown brave hearts.
Let you walk there when you wish
Talk to me and i can answer,
Your voice can call me home.
Let me lie where there is heartease
Under a bluebell wood.
And only you know where.

·

Helen Burke

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Cover:

The Giraffe Who Ate Eternity

by Phil Pattinson

Meditation on Courage

Today

Your birthday , and we talk about New
Beginnings. We empty out the old hatreds
And bleed no more.
Today is the kind of candytuft
Garden
You might lay your head in at the last.
Beginnings are poised to be frightening
Nothing is known about them.
They are the pale ballerina shoe dancing
In the dark.
They are the wished-for moon speaking
To you in the unlikely midnight.
We have always been the very beginning
Of the light , now we see that .
We chirrup like sparrows heralding
A new world.
The eagle and the owl are endings
But sparrows have the best of it.
Our hands hold to each second with
Each other in the half light of hope.
This is our last beginning my love.
And our finest.

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Cover: 'Green Man'

from Helen & Phil's Garden

Allowed

Those of us who are allowed
Do we have the best of it?
Myself I am not allowed.
If the universe suspects I have
Anything
It rears up, lashes out.
Takes back.
Even the sky overhead the green
Field beneath my feet
Come at a price.
So I pretend a game, lead it
To believe I am destitute
The prohibition in my soul complete
Fool the universe.
Sometimes it works.
Today you make the coffee and I say
No, not for me
While I am drinking it.
By afternoon we will know which
Way the wind blows.
The knock on the door, the
Quiet exposé, the taking down
Of the pictures from the walls.
I am not allowed I sing as they
Lead me to the train, and
Then the showers.
How many lifetimes must we pay
The price.
Is it allowed we ask , over and over.
The thread of our love so strong.
Always ,it survives.
And this they cannot bear.
The visibility of love ,of hope, of truth.
What else to live for ?
What else ?

Flowers in my hair

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Artwork by Helen Burke

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Sandra is a child of Peace and Love

Sandra is five foot two.
Sandra is fierce, like Boadicea.
We are on our way to Knebworth in an old jiloppy,
my red hat is floppy and I’ve got sandals on
and we’ve got joss sticks in the van.
Joni Mitchell is playing in the park,
we’ve borrowed keith’s van and we’re off
to Knebworth for a lark.

Sandra works at Woolies - plastic roses care of Daz
decorate her hair. If you can remember Sandra in
the sixties you probably were not there .
Me – I’m a rebel in my leopard skin pill box hat
and Sandra – she’s a child of Peace and Love.

I’ve been selling Oz magazine in High Street again,
I’m a student, I’m a rebel, when they call at my
door – me mam’s packed me sandwiches,
I said I’ll be home by four – I’ve got a dahlia in my
hair – if you can remember me and Sandra –
you just so were not there –
me I’m a rebel, quintessential psychedelic,
and Sandra, she’s a child of peace and love.

Its 1994, when I meet Sandra again –
she says – What you doing now pet ?
Do you fancy a cup of tea,
we can nip down to Greggs, I’ve got the 40p.
Barry? – the one with the headband –
he’s living in Oz now – I wish I’d never met
him, a flaming square – As far as happiness
goes, he was definitely not there
Do you remember I was a child of peace and love??

She says all the bairns have gone
and she’s divorced twice now –
she’s doing a course in self development –
worra laugh – about bloody time eh ??
There are lines around her eyes –
which is no surprise to me, no not at all –
When we pass the flower seller in the Big
Market , I can almost smell that perfume
of when we didn’t have a care –
She says – “Do you remember “
I say – of course not – we were there.
I’ll always be a rebel.
And you are still a child of peace and love.
•
Helen Burke © 2017

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Cover by Helen Burke

Football research

by Phil Pattinson

The Match

Because o.k. lets face it

Life is a match.

You know it and I know it.

And where you sit depends on how it goes.

And – you never get to pick your own team.

And so much depends on the colours of your scarf.

(None of this is by choice – you think
it is, but no.)

My Lucky Boots

These are my lucky boots.
No kid.
No sweat.
I keep them in the hall ,
on the right side of the hall.
I fasten them with laces, very special laces.
Only the best will do.
These are my lucky boots.

They are going to score a dream goal.
Today and every day.
They are going to win the cup.
Me knees have all gone trembley cos
I’m on me way to Wembley.
These are my lucky boots.

No-one’s allowed to touch them.
Especially not me brother.
He always wants to wear them
To get him out of bother.
I keep them in the hall where
Only I can see them.

I even wear them in my dreams,
My feet would know them anywhere.
Sometimes I have a nightmare –
They’ve been given to the jumble,
And I have to go and find them
And everyone else can see them.
Except me.

But, I can see them in the hall.
Safe as houses. Twice as precious.
I will never ever lose,
In my lucky, lucky boots.
Only the best for me
In my lucky, lucky boots.

·

Helen Burke © 2017

Kidnapping The Last Happy Day

My Name is Still Available

Kidnapping The Last Happy Day

You can ask why did we do it ?
But I would say – why not ..?
We have kidnapped the last happy day in the Universe.
It was easy – it was just being itself – not expecting trouble.
And we have had enough – and action was called for.
Its not that I like to see it hands and feet bound –
Its not that I enjoy bringing it water.
But what else was there for it ....
No one else seemed bothered , to give a damn.
And now you’re sitting up , taking notice of our demands.
Which are .
Not money or helicopters or our own private island – no.
All we want is more happy days like this one while there’s still time.
All we want is an end to the endless riddle of wars and suffering .
Until you meet our demands we will be ceaseless in opposition.
So – 12 o clock on the Brooklyn Bridge is where you will meet us.
And you will bring the document signed in your own blood.
And the happy Day that shines like a beacon in our kitchen
Will be released.
It will have been well treated and not harmed in any way.
And you will not recognise us – we will look like every other
Person in the Universe.
Except you .

Climbing Trees

If I had never seen a butterfly

Climbing Trees

Soft as tissue paper the tree smiles.
Phil tells me how many trees he’s climbed
Me, I’ve never climbed a tree
And that is what my life lacks.
I am all hugging trees but he is climbing the tree
Scaling and ascending up up into the blue air
Why is the air always blue, probably isn’t, you know
Up into the Turneresque air
Now look how I try to make a poem of it
But Phil has simply climbed the tree
And this is what my life lacks
I would like him to climb more trees in our front room
We must install more, and we do today
A Rowen an Oak and an Ash
A Willow, the Willow tree is special
The nearest I ever got to climbing a tree
And this is what my life has lacked
In the dream my hands and arms work again
I cheer I laugh to see my beautiful hands again
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
I have never held a bee , I have never climbed a tree
And this is what my life has lacked.
And Phil is tall as a tree
And stretches up up into the atmosphere
As if he is flying a kite
As if he is in Mary Poppins
As if he is a magical hare
As if he is a fox climbing tree
At the top of the tree will be white sliced bread
Toasted like on a old galley train
And we will climb and climb and the tree will be wonderful
What we build in the tree, soft wonderful tree, the things you can hide in the tree
And this is what my life has lacked
The tree is Monroe the tree is an eagle
The tree is a Rowan all singing all dancing
And still Phil climbs and he reaches a hand down to me
Gives me a hand up
And I follow him up the tree
The tree beyond words of beauty
The tree that I have lacked , he gives me back he gives me back
That tree that tree he gives me back so many trees
I lose count of them
And him self walking in a forest
Not caring but always daring
A magician tree a Phil tree
My tree of always
And now I finally get to climb that tree

·

Helen Burke

Kaleidoscope Life

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The Valley of Happy Songs

New Childhood

In this our new religion
You feed me, clothe me, bathe me
And when people come and ask how we are
We smile and say ..we are fine and dandy ..doing good.
And our hearts beat a little faster at the mask we wear.
A mask is not new to us
And we are adept at wearing.
Like a shell at the sea’s edge ..i lean on you and you on me .
The birds of the air pull us through another day.
The song of the ocean is you
And I am a small sparrow diving into the midnight hours of morning.
Outside my window a blackbird asks how we are
And him we can tell.
You pour me a glass of wine
It is the colour of fine roses
And we drift and dream into the heart of it.
We sew each other back together
Watch Rebel without a cause
And thank our lucky lucky stars
That the moon has been ours to take as lover ...one more time.

·

Ringo's House

Ballad of Penny Lane

Ringo's House

It’s always the last one on the tour
And that’s only if you ask – and then the driver
Might, only might, go home that way.
No-one knows much about it and they are
Going to knock it down anyway.

Two women at the back say it’s a scandal and ask
The man at the back with the dog called Clancey
What it looked like in its heyday –
What was the wallpaper like ?? The curtains ??

But he can’t remember – just that they were all in and out
Of each other’s houses all of the time ..
Everybody was everyone’s friend -
And that Ringo’s mam did great fry ups. And big mugs
Of tea. And eggy bread.

And it’s getting really dark now – because John and Paul’s houses took such a long time - and it’s the whole street in twilight, a kind of purple twilight suitable for a drummer
As we all sit quiet as if we were at mass... and look the house
Up and down as if we were buying some song from the past.

And the man with the dog gets out for a smoke –
And another car pulls up – and asks the way to George’s house...
And the house of the drummer that will soon be ashes
That will soon be just dust gives out a long sigh
Into the Liverpool night.

And through the window you can see that the wallpaper
Is green and still intact and that across one of
The boarded up bits – someone has written LOVE ME DO .
“It’s a damn shame,” says the chunkiest of the women
And hands round cheese sandwiches while
The other one gets out and leans against the wall like
A Da Vinci figure – and puts her hand up against the window.

And one by one we all get out – and sure enough the driver
Starts to sing Love me Do – and the dog barks along.
And suddenly its 1963 again – and the Cavern is
Just down the road. And all of us are young.
And the house glows in the twilight.
And everything still to play for – hope in our hearts
In the compelling and deafening Liverpool night.
•
Helen Burke © 2014

A Certain Kind of Mist

A Certain Kind of Mist

Picasso Woman

Today, again, I am her.
Picasso woman with all that that implies.
My nose is upside down and cabbage shaped,
my mouth suctioned to my breast
And my breast ramshackle in the hedgerow behind me.

My eye is in my foot, the other one throbs in my stomach
And keeps a close watch on the rest of me. My coiled hair
Stretches from here to Timbuctoo and is both green and blue
And the eye in my stomach is lilac.
What’s a gal to do ??

My hands are nests of blackbirds coiled around the moon
And it’s a privilege to wear these mermaids legs.
The tail swishes and has its own buttonholed agenda
Of summer days and mountain tops and misty nights and
Eagle hearts. The eagle herself is my spine that never retreats.

My garden is full of the old boat that rocks that I must call myself...
And the Picasso woman I am become smiles to see the pieces
I have become, without even trying .
I can paint myself no other ending than this, the whole of me
A curfew, a lighthouse, a word I did not know, a sparrow
Sunning itself in the sun.

Corfu Town

Under the Old Tree, Corfu Town

The Dogs of Corfu

We hear them barking in the night . All night.
You say they are not having a party.
In the day we pass the villas where they are chained,
Or running free along the walls.
A little white one waits for us every night. She barks and barks.
Then three wild dogs set about your heels as we walk
Down the last stretch home.
Two are huge , but the smaller one looks meanest .
Two large dogs behind a wall see them off,
And we almost run back to the hotel.
The only dogs we see in the day lie comfortable, asleep
Outside tavernas where the smell of grilled chicken overpowers.
What cats we do see, look afraid and almost wilted in the heat.
Beware of the Dog is on every other gate, and I tell you
There is no crime on the island.
Wonder why.
•
Helen Burke © June 2015

Once I Knew

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Man Sweeping Leaves

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Helen Burke © 2015

Once I Knew

When I was a dancer , then
I knew what I was about.
I could pluck the blue sky and the moon
Down from the sky and wear them both
And balance on the edge of clouds.
When I was a dancer.

When I was a dreamer, then
I knew what I was about.
I could hover over a green field and place
The heart of it into my ribs, and laugh
That I could do this.
When I was a dreamer.

When I was a sparrow, then
I knew what I was about.
I could tether the air to my wings
And become each tree, each drop of nectar
That dazzled me in flight.
When I was a sparrow.

When I was an apple, then
I knew what I was about.
I could close my eyes
And feel the plumage of the forest
And the flight of the birds,
And the dancing girl
Who so easily captures the minarets and towers
Of eternity that is love in her two feet.
When I was an apple.

When I was a grain of sand, then
I knew nothing.
Except that I was a dancing girl
With a sparrow for a soul
And a dreamer for my spirit self –
And an apple for my head –
Flowing and rolling away to the seas edge
To the ends of the world,
Under the bridge of time
Where all such dear friends are gathered,
Until the end of the world –
Then all is revealed.
When I was a grain of sand,
All is revealed.
•
Helen Burke © 2014

Inside a Dog's Head

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Inside a Dog's Head

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Helen Burke © 2014

The Kindness of Dogs

You say it and it is true.
Dogs are kind.
They buy small dog treats for each other.
They hold doors open for cats.
They run rings around the moon ,
Bury the sun in the sand and throw sticks
For the stars.

Dogs are kind.
They put paws on your knees on bad days.
They hold a light out to you in their eyes.
They run to the top of the mountain and bark
“Which stone did you want ?? which one ??”
And race back down with it and place it gently at your feet.
Dogs are kind (you say it and it is true).
They bark in all the right places at the theatre and hide
Behind the sofa in the scary movie. They share their ice cream
With you, no questions asked.

Our dog – Zorro - the one we have not met yet
Will be our best chum, best in the whole world.
He will be faithful and strong.
In dreams he runs right up to me, barks, and says
“You look a little peaky. Why not take a year off
And come with me to Zanzibar? Stretch your legs and chase
Your tail. See all that world out there? It’s yours for the asking.”
And he gives me one of his fleas as a token of goodwill.
Dogs are kind.

They run into the sun and look amazed that it is wet
But they do not take offence.
They love a through breeze in their ears hanging out of windows
A breeze that says they’re happy in all the different continents.
Dogs are good map-readers and they always
Know a better route – past the poodle beauty parlour and turn
Right at the Dog and Duck.
Dogs lay their heads beside you and know just what you’re thinking.
Dogs favourite word is walk.
Dogs are kind.
•
Helen Burke © December 2014

The Healing Pool

Different Snowdrops

Different snowdrops
Different snowdrops, different lives
Outside my window , a snowdrop is singing.
It is brave , so I am brave.
You say – lets go down to the woods
And see the snowdrops, the bluebells.
I don’t even know where the woods are, except
The ones I’ve been living through all my life.
For you, the woods are just somewhere you visit
With picnic laughter and bright star feet.
For me, the woods are what I wake into each day
And try and crawl out of, make my way home.
But, just this snowdrop has come today – to say
One day, for you, there will be no more woods.
I could not explain this to you – how myself and this
White guardian sing out our hearts under the snow
That would bury us, crush us.
Just to stay alive. This is our aim.
And this cannot be explained.
•
Helen Burke © 2014

The Healing Pool

Yesterday, was not a good day.
But, last night, I dreamed I was dipped in water.
In such a pool as I have never seen.
It was glorious – the water silver and deep

And lush flowers growing all around.
And people balanced in the water, like acrobats
Or dolphins, leaping higher as they gained strength.

(And I said, let me walk here forever.)

And around the edges of the pool were all manner
Of creatures, living side by side – because over them
The waters had cast a spell. Of truth, of hope.
And two pools there were –
And I was dipped in the first –
Then jumped myself, into the second
Without a thought of harm or capture.

And the water washed over me, and was warm and rich on the body.
And seemed like an old friend.
And I wanted to stay and be beside this pool for ever.
Never to leave its warmth, its beauty.

And even now, I have no memory of leaving, or being asked to leave.
Only a voice saying “Later my dear, later.”

And when I woke – sure, the world was turned around.
•
Helen Burke © 2013

Visiting the Parrot

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Visiting the Parrot

ALL I WANT

All I want, before the end
Is a few days in the sun.
Somewhere to catch my breath.
That’s all I ask.
Perhaps , an old apple tree –
And myself to sit there, with my head on your shoulder.
And to tell you that I love you.
And to know that you love me.
A simple soul.
That’s all I ask – before the end.

(for Phil) written on 26th june 2012 – and the sun IS shining.
HELEN BURKE © 2012

The Leaves of Dachau

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Cover design by Helen Burke

Two Dreams

Two dreams I had, and not sure which to believe.  
In the first I am in a dungeon.
No way out ever, and can’t get home.  
There is the sound of my own blood being drawn
And metal in the air, a smell of sulphur.  
The feeling I came there on a horse – and he too
Has not escaped.  
I am in white and wield great power and all of this
Has been my downfall.  
In the second dream – I am a dancer again, waiting
For my turn in the wings.  
A blue billowing curtain stands before my face
And while I wait I write my name
Over and over in the sand with my ballet shoes.  
The music is sublime – and two old friends arrive
And argue as to who will dance with me.  
They both say they will come back later,
But I know this will not happen.  
This dance I wait to do is mine alone, a thing apart.  
A lonely eagle calling out to air from the mountain
I have called my heart.  
(There are promises we keep & cannot kee- - even In our dreams.)

Two dreams I had, and not sure which to believe.

•
Helen Burke © 2012

The Leaves of Dachau

This is the language of leaves.
They who are gone
before they are gone.
“The moment you give in,
falling is forever,” they whisper.
Inside this one leaf
I can see – life is hanging on.
I can see it is arrogant.
I can see it is stubborn.
Even though the cold has come.
Even though the other leaves are in hiding.
It will not fail.

On these trees there is no room to sit,
no place to breathe, to speak
no chance to say goodbye,
no farewell space.
Look.
This is the place where they fall.
Their bones crushed into the cold earth.
Winter happens under the very eyes of Spring.
Year after year, and still.
Nothing is done.
Just the black rage of buried leaves
falling victim to the air.
Winter has a file on ice.
Autumn goes to the shelf, reaches down the dark book,
interrogates each one.
There is a power of frozen words
beneath the ice.
They are ours forever.
They who are gone. Before they are gone.

Where will it all end – this falling ??
Mother by father. Sister by brother.
The voices resound in the earth.
Dying comes easily to leaves.
This sky holds the blood of them,
season after season.
But, this one leaf, that is holding on.
It keeps something of the sun
in the corner of its souls eye.
There is a whisper they will not shake it.
•
Helen Burke © Feb 2012

Let There Be Chocolate

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The Other Side of Midnight

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The Moon is Crying

It seems a strange sort of night to any other.
A night when friends can call to each other and remember,
Hold each other close.
We notice the moon is crying, tear by tear.
The tears fall over the castle and down the hill.
My eyes cannot see all of the picture, though the moon hangs low obligingly.
Someone brings out the wine, we stir it with jasmine stems.
The picture almost complete.
Only my heart hangs back. Only my heart says wait.
There are two moons tonight (the one watches the other).
We bring nothing but ourselves to this silent space, why, the moon herself
Has brought no more.
She is a silver guardian, a panther that walks before and behind us.
Which moon are we to believe ?
Which moon is real?? -  for,  the moon never lies.
We follow the braids of her long black hair.
We ascend star by star, following her panther stride.
We take each separate moon as we find her – in the root of a tree,
In the hoot of an owl,  in the thumbprint of dawn.
This crying moon is the moon in truth – and tonight as ever –
The moon never lies.
•
 
Helen Burke © 2011

Drawing Dogs

Cover design by Helen Burke
•

Drawing Dogs

I have taken to drawing dogs.
They have begun to seem more like people
Than people.
I feel more certain that they will
Inherit the earth.
I feel safer when a dog snarls
Than when a person smiles.
I can see them deciding not to think of all the answers
Before they’ve eaten their dinner.
I can see they’re not bothered if the post is late
Or if they miss the bus to Fulham Broadway.
Their faces do not pose when you look at them.
(And then try and pretend that
They’ve just seen you.)
If they’re happy, they’re happy – and sad if they’re sad.
If they got begging letters –
They would answer all of them.
In their heads, all of them are riding motorbikes
Across France
Without a cur in the world.
And most brilliantly of all –
they do not write poetry.
I like dogs.
•
Helen Burke © 2011

ALL Of These Poems Are Edible

The Russian Doll that was My Mother

Like the Russian Doll we kept on the sideboard –
That was you, mam.
Foreign, exotic, that mysterious smile, unfathomable.
Your exterior of certainty, so hard won, over years.  
(How many dolls since I saw you ?)
 
For everyday, you used the first doll – she is tough and gruff.
Sometimes on birthdays and at Christmas
A second doll appears – kinder-eyed and softer.  
Then once — walking home – myself falling on the ice –
A further doll still – one who held me tight and said –
“My Lass.  My Own Lass – You They Must Not Break.”
And so we walked together on – through the dark-eyed storm.
(How many dolls since I saw you?)
 
That last doll, mam – her I never met nor even knew.
But what strange mystery she had – I know I learned the trick from you.  
Dangerous the doll that gives too much away.
How many dolls since we walked through the storm??  
How many?  How many dolls?
•
Helen Burke © 2010

{/mooblock}

The Whisper of Birds

Owls

Tonight,
the moon is a river.
A silver shadow whose face we admire.
The moon turns the rivers pages
like a book.
Softly, the page turn, one by one.
In the river ourselves, our faces, turning.
Here, where the edges of trees
frisk our shadows
and trace the night shapes of houses –
we are watching for owls.
I am convinced they are near.
It is only that the dark trees are hiding them
It is only that the old boats are hiding them.
The owls fly inside my own eyes – in and in,
flying lower and lower.
My thoughts become feathers.
My dreams have no edges.
Flight swallows me.
I am owl and moon and river and night.
The stars watch over me – the pulse of the water
greets me, keens for me
that I must watch here, so late.
It is the hour for owls.
I hear the slow beating of their coming.
A train passes, holds the moon
in each of its windows.
Myself, I am held by the promise of owls.
My throat holds a shadow, it grows and grows
and from it
flies the first of them.
•
Helen Burke © 2010