J.D.S.

There was once a man who dug his own grave
Looking for a quiet place to lie.

Country gin,
A gramophone,
Indigo evenings spent alone-
Not too much to ask.
He didn't have to die.


In your cementbound darkness in a nameless smalltown,
In an overflowing cellar with the door clamped down,
Playing your violent blues in the deep underground,
I hope that you found it somehow.

A Winter's Tale

Terrible weather it was,
And all in all a most
Inconvenient day
For that sort of thing.

But the hour had been anointed.
There were choirs ready to sing.

The child looked up
At brown gypsy faces
In guttering candlelight,
At snow on the earth.
Felt the hot stink of cattle
And the heat of their gazes,
And cried
Though angels praised his birth.