Ian Anderson: The Secret Language Of Birds

Hard black crows bobbing where once ran deep furrows.
Frazzled oak silhouetted in her ivy dress.
Winter sun catches dog fox through thin hedges:
Throws his long shadow north to the emptiness.

Farmhouse in tatters; shuttered and battered.
Even lovers don't go there these last few years.
Spider-web windows on set-aside heroes
Standing lost in a landscape of tears.

Cool in the corner, tom cat sitting
On the edge of the yard; sand-flies flitting.
Orange order on a field of green.
Smothers me to smithereens.
Rum and cola, ice cubes crashing.
Jumping beans and brown eyes flashing.
Long hair swinging, tell me how d'you feel?
Well, hot and fancy, it's the habanero reel.

Troubled skin? pour oil upon it.
She's fit to burn in her new scotch bonnet.
Spice up anybody's stew.
Frogs and goats and chickens too.

Barefoot in the sunshine.
Kicking empty beer cans down on the high tide line.
Big wave nearly float your dress away.
And i'm thinking that it's just another day:
Just another day.

Feel that hot rush start its tickle.
Sweat is rising, taste buds prickle
With ears of bat and eye of eagle.
It's just as well it's strictly legal.

Dear uncle sold her into the purest kind of slavery.
Hood-eyed little middlemen profited from damaged goods
Along the way.
Good angels brought her back to a last nepal summer.
Debased, hollow-faced, a smile might become her.
Now she's cosied up, cosied up and comforted
In the warm flush of september.
Gone before winter.
Wondering as to might-have-beens.
Somebody's daughter in sanctuary, waiting.

Seen through softer cage of kindness, far and further still away,
From time-warp victorian zoos
Where staring ice cream gameboys play.
Big paws, worn claws and swishing tails.
More damaged goods in the market sales.
Too proud for anger, too late for hate: resigned in dignity.
Gone before winter.
Purring might-have-beens.
Somebody's kitten in sanctuary, waiting.

Somebody near you in sanctuary, waiting.

Crystal fountain springing from the hill.
It irrigates your soul. you may drink your fill.
Water of life, carried high.
One hand upon the gallon jar. feel her fix my eye.

Every good traveller's for the taking.
All good money for the making.
Seller's market: wet appeal.
Water carrier------let's make the deal.

Covered face and black pool eyes.
Between us, no words spoken: no words to the wise.
Here's to another time and a drink somewhere.
Plush on a nain carpet; on a caf

My eyes are white circles above cheekbones on fire:
Pale hand gripping my pen.
Rounding up to the zero, adding infinite fractions,
Letting nine become ten.
Two pink doves strut the shingles
Picking crumbs from the breakfast i saved
For you dear. and i wish you were here
On this postcard day.

Focus on the fine indeterminate line
Where the sky meets the sea.
Desperate midweek words, banal and absurd
Freely flow out of me.
Well, i may be a hostage to summer
But i'm a hostage, not a slave.
And i'm clear that i wish you were here
On this postcard day.

Precious cargo of flotsam: mixed memories on an ocean tide
Swim madly with spice from the orient
On a mystery watery carpet ride.
But with the sun going down, the wind goes around;
Blows them back out of mind.

My eyes are white circles staring down past the point
Of my restless pen.
While the ghosts of my youth all sworn to the truth
Call my name again.
Two brown legs don't make a summer.
But two brown arms couldn't keep me away.
Well, my dear, i wish you were here
On this postcard day.

Down at the church the flower girl sits. legs innocent, apart.
I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart.
Painted sister stopped beside. a word upon her saintly lip.
Perhaps admonishing the child inside the open slip.

I don't know where she might go when she runs home at night.
It's for the best: i wouldn't rest when i turned out the light.
No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream----
Just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine.

I have touched that face a dozen times before. and i have let my pencil run.
Laid down washes on a foreign shore, under a hot and foreign sun.
My best sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm.
Her chin i tilt, her breasts i lift. i mean no harm.

I close the door. she is no more until the next appointed hour.
Northeastern light push back the night: painted promises in store.
No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream----
Just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine.

Down at the church my flower girl sits. legs innocent, apart.
I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart.
My golden sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm.
Her chin i tilt, her breasts i lift. i mean no harm.
I mean no harm. i mean

In all my lives, i never knew anyone like you before.
Woke up one day, swore i heard the sound of heaven knocking on my door.
And after all these years long passing,
Time to reflect, no time for wasting.
Walking down the jasmine corridor.

Reflecting echoes of quiet laughter.

In all my life, i was never better served than i was served by you.
And in my way, hope you agree i tried to serve you too.
Out on the headland i stepped once unsteady.
You there to catch me , i breathe more freely.
Hand in mine down the jasmine corridor.

Through all my life, i chased flitting illusions at a faster pace.
Never stopped to think: the moment was for seizing, had myself to face.
You made my bed to lie in, stately.
Mad cats, grandchildren, here more often lately.
The final view from the jasmine corridor.