POETRY OF MICHAEL FOSTER
OF CHRISTIAN CHARITY
Alas for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun...
..........................Thomas Hood.
A single salt droplet
Leaves its forehead spring
And trickles shining down the ramparts
Of a work-weary face -
Chanelling down the black-beaten lines
Of centuries of limb-labour
To drop coagulant in the dust.
Hoarse breath limps light
Through parched rifts in sun-baked lips,
Eyes squinting through the tremor
Of summer heat on the low-lying land ...
Head down again .. Tendons taut tightening,
Tired muscles back bunching, bulging ...
Leaning burden beasts knot straining,
And the plough breakes through the sterile
....land.
And at the edge of the field a starving womb
Vomits up a still-born child,
And shrivelled milkless breasts
Bare their ragged nipples to the sun.
Bitter eyes meet through their searching tears,
And the plough breaks through the sterile land.
And there on the hill,
In the High House on the hill
Affected mirth rings brittle down on empty ears.
Idle tongues lip their lazy lies,
Disbelieving heads smile and nod knowing,
Strange metallic music echoes straining
For smooth stockinged feet and fat sweaty feet
To reason out the rigid rhythms.
Diamond fingers curve dainty round cool crystal,
Ever bending to slake up saturated mouths.
Contented grunts and noises filter round the
....feast
As heavy glutton stomachs
Move watering in, move impatiently in
To swallow and gape and gorge and swallow up
Completely the wonderful waste set before them.
There is a party on the hill
And the people there are happy -
Are content with themselves on the hill.
And in the field hungry bitter eyes
Meet through their unheard tears
And the calloused plough
Breaks through the sterile land.
It is enough.
All is well among us.
All is well with the Human Race,
Let us give thanks,
Let us give thanks to nothing.
For all is well ...
O, hold me, hold me, gentle mother,
Let me lie in your lap, cry in your lap,
Secure in false knowledge of Right,
Safe in the fat of their money and might.
In the fields they lie hugging
Their shrunken stomachs
And moaning at night,
For somewhere it is written
That the rich inherit the treasures of old -
While the meek must content with mere earth.
O weep with me, bleed with me, gentle mother,
Till Oblivion inherit us all ...
---------------------------------W. Michael Foster (Age 17)
Email: jneil7@sunbeach.net
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